Class 




Copyright Ni 



COIYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






Copyright. 1882. 
By Thomas Y. Crowell <fe Co. 



PREFACE. 



Though text-books of every variety abound, and many per- 
sons assert the old to be better than the new, yet every year 
sees no inconsiderable number added to their list. It is folly 
to suppose that any one prepares a work merely for the sake of 
doing it, and careful examination proves that every successor in 
a given field has some superiority of plan, comprehensiveness, 
detail, or material to recommend it. Something it may lack 
that others have ; but it also has something that others lack. So 
it is with compilations of poetry. Every one is found faulty 
somewhere, by somebody, nor can it be imagined possible, with 
the varied tastes of men, that the work of one should be so all- 
embracing as to leave no intelligent reader disappointed. The 
com})iler of this volume has not pretended to make what she 
has never found, — a perfect com2:)ilation, — and will be gratified 
if this prove so well done as to save it from the charge of 
being a supernumerary. Whatever its defects, it still carries 
out, in the main, her aim in undertaking it, which Avas, — 

First. — To represent the genius of woman as fairly as that 
of man. 

Second. — To the extent of the compiler's power, to give 
those poets their just dues who have hitherto not had them. 

Third. — To quote largely, though in brief passages, from 
those authors whose works, through their uninviting looks, 
length, or sitbject, or the undue bias imparted by ridicule and 
one-sided criticism, are generally seldom read, and but imper- 
fectly represented. 



Fourth. — To bring together not only copious extracts 
from tlie standard and popular writers of Great Britain and 
America, but also a goodly number of poems from the very 
latest volumes of both countries, and a representation, through 
one poem, at least, of those whose writings are as yet un- 
collected, and whose names have not appeared in other com- 
pilations. 

The alphabetic arrangement of the work — prepared virtu- 
ally in portions; not offered complete to the printers — de- 
manded unusual readiness in the choice and supply of material, 
and the temporary omissions of chance or necessity placed 
authors and poems desired for the body of the work in its 
supplement. A glance at the latter will quickly discover, from 
its value, that, though coming after, it is no afterthought. 

A number of names on the compiler's list were, through 
accident, wholly omitted, while others were left out through 
want of space on account of the length of poems, or because 
extracts could not be seasonably obtained. Positive knowl- 
edge of insufficient space excluded translations from the work, 
and thougli ballads and anonymous poems were in the plan, 
there was found to be very meagre room for even these. 

In comparing the extent of representation, it will be remem- 
bered that the space occupied by poems, no less than their 
number, must be considered. Other things being equal, the 
compiler welcomes brevity, and the more this element prevails 
in an author, or the more his works admit of short and striking 
quotation, the more variously can he be represented. It often 
happens that one long lyric claims as much room as five or six 
short ones, Avhile a mere glance at the index would seem to 
indicate injustice. 

To the editor's sincere regret, and through circumstances 
over which she had no control, Joaquin Miller, John White 
Chadwick, and Walt Whitman are unrepresented in this 
volume ; while the poems from Helen Jackson, Dk. Joyce, 
and Edgar Fawcett are, from a like necessity, not those at 
first selected from their works. 



The publishers acknowledge the generous courtesy of the 
following houses in granting the use of their publications : 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ; J. R. Osgood & Co.; Harper 
& Brothers ; Charles Scribner's Sons ; J. B. Lippincott & Co. ; 
G. P. Putnam's Sons ; Lee & Shepard ; D. Appleton & Co. ; 
The Century Company ; E. P. Button & Co. ; and R. Worth- 
iiigton. 

The editor also recognizes the private courtesy of many, 
among whom are Edmund Clarence Stedman, Richard 
Watson Gilder, John Boyle O'Reilly, John Townsend 
Trowbridge, William Winter, Edgar Fawcett, Edna 
Dean Proctor, Mary Mapes Dodge, Louise Chandler 
Moulton, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Julia C. R. Dorr, 
and Louisa Parsons Hopkins. 

Justice requires the statement that this compilation has 
occupied the leisure intervals of a busy life for but fifteen 
months ; also that it has been prepared entirely without aid ; 
and that a thorough examination of the authoi's' works, where 
accessible- — as in the majority of cases they were — made the 
selections, as largely as possible, independent^f those prepared 
by others, though of necessity, choice has often proved 

coincident. 

C. F. B. 



COI^TEIN^TS. 



A. 



Abide with Me, . . 
Abou ben Adheiii, . . 
About Husbands, . . 
Abraham Liueohi, 

Absence 

A (Jharacter, .... 

A Charaeter, .... 

A Character, .... 

A Character, .... 

A Coninion Thought, . 

A Day in Sussex, . . 

A Day of Sunshine, . 

Address to a Mummy, 

Address to Certain (ioldlishes, 

A Dealli-Bed, . . . 

A ])esire, 

A Dirge, 

A Dream, 

A Dream's Awalieniujj 

A Drop of Dew, . • 

Advice on Church Beliavior, . 

Advice to One of Simple Life, 

A Face in tlie Street, . . . 

A Faithful Picture of Ordinary Society, 

A Familiar Letter to Several Correspondents, 

A Farewell, 

Afar in the Desert, .... 

Affliction, 

A Forsaken Garden, .... 

A Forest Wallc, 

A Four o'clock, 

After All, 

After a Mother's Death, . . 
After Death in Arabia, . . . 

After the Ball, 

After the Burial, 

After the Kain, 

A Funeral Thought, .... 
Against Hash Opinions, . . . 
Against Skeptical Philosophy, 

Age 

Aged Sophocles Addressing the Athenians, 

A Happy Life, 

A Hospital 

A Letter, 

Alexander at Persepolis . 
Alexander Selkirk, . . . 
Alexander's Feast, . . . 
A Life on the Ocean Wave, 
A Little before Death, . . 

A Little While, 

All Change ; no Death, . . 



Lyte. . . . 

Hunt, . . 

Sdxe, . . 

Stoddard, . 

Kemble, . . 

J'. B. Urowni 

JJniden, 

J. T. Fields, 

n. n. Lytion, 

Tivirod, 

Blunt, . . 

H. W. Lomjfe 

H. Smith, . 

H. Coleridge, 

J. AUh-ich, . 

Sjmlding, . 

Winter, . . 

A. ( 'an/, 

S. M. B. Piatt 

Marcel/ 

Herbert, 

Crahbe, 

G. P. Lathrnp 

Cnirper, . . 

Holmes, . . 

Ainf/sle!j, . 

Primjle, 

A. 7'. I)e Vert 
Swinburne, 
Street, . . 
Spofford, . 
Winter, . . 

E. Cook, . 
K. Arnold. . 
Perry, . . 
Lowell, . . 
T. B. A Id rich 

B. Taylor, . 
Crabbe, . . 
Campbell, . 
/>o(/er.i, . . 
A.' Fields, . 
If of ton, . . 

F. Spencer, 
Phelps, . . 
Michell, . 
Cowper, . . 
Dryden, 
Sarqent, 

H. k. White, 
Bonar, . . 
E. Young, . 



I lor 



Xll 



CONTENTS. 



All Earthly Joy Returns ill Pain Dunbar 20« 

All in a Liifetime, Stedman, 539 

All the Rivers, Phelps 416 

All Things Once are Things Forever Lord Houghton, . . . 289 

All Things Sweet when Prized, A. T. De Vere, ... 186 

All Together, H. H. Brownetl, ... 57 

Alone, H. H. Broivnell, ... 58 

A Lost Chord, A. A. Procter, ... 441 

A Lover's Prayer, . . . • Wyatt 677 

A Love Song M. A. De Vere, ... 317 

A March Violet Lazarus, 337 

A Match, Sicinburne, .... 555 

Ambition, O. Houghton, .... 285 

Ambition, E. Young 683 

Amends Richardson, .... 458 

America, Dobell, 189 

A Mussel Shell, Thaxter 587 

A Name in the Sand Gould 238 

An Author's Complaint, Pope, 765 

And Thou hast Stolen a Jewel, Massey, 368 

And Were That Best ? Gilder, 233 

An Evening Reverie, Bryant, 80 

An Epitaph, Prior, 773 

Angelic Care, E. Spencer, .... .528 

An Idle Poet, Robertson, 851 

Annabel Lee, Poe. 423 

An October Picture, Collier, 143 

An Old Song Reversed, Stoddard, 540 

An Open Secret Mason, 844 

Answered, P. Cary, 127 

Antony to Cleopatra Bytle, .'553 



An Unthrift, Braddock, . . 

An Untimely Thought T. B. Aldrich, 

A Passionate Shepherd to his Love, Marloice, . . 

A Petition to Time, B. W. Proctor, 

A Picture, Street, . . . 

A Picture of Pollen, Scott 

Apollo Belvedere, W. 1!'. Gay, . 

A Portrait, E. B. Browning, 

Apostrophe to Ada, Byron, . . .' 

Apiistrophe to Hope, Campbell, . . 

Apostvoplie to Liberty, Addison, . . 

Apostroplie to l^ight, Milton, 



805 

10 

842 

444 

549 

477 

K20 

63 

105 

117 

3 

381 

Apostroplie to Popular Applause, Coirper, 157 

Apostrophe to the Ocean, Byron, 100 

Apostrophe to the Poet's Sister, }f'ordsn-o)'th, .... 6(i7 

Apostrophe to the Sun Perriral 411 

Apostrophe to the ^V^limslcal, Crabhe, 165 

A Prayer in Sickness, li. W. Procter, . . . 445 

April ir. Morris .390 

A Protest, J. 'P. Fields, .... 226 

A Question Answered, Machay, 365 

Archie, ' /'. Cary, 125 

A Request, Landor, .328 

Argument, Tupper, 617 

A Scene in the Highlands, Scott, 477 

Ashes of Roses, E. Goodale, .... 237 

Asking for Tears S. M. B. Piatt, ... 421 

Ask Me uo More Carew, 118 

Ask Me no More, Tennyson 57m 

A Sleep, Prescott, 434 

A Snow-Drop, Spoford, 531 

A Snow-Storm, Eastman 208 

A Song of Content, /. ■/. Riatt, .... 419 

A Song of Doubt, Holland, 271 

A Song of Faith, Holland, 272 

Aspirations after the Infinite, Itenside, 7 

Aspirations of Youth Montgomery, .... 384 

A Spring Day, Jlloomjield, 40 



CONTENTS. 



xm 



As Slow our Ship, -^''T'» ' ' • • 

Assurance, E.D. Brotiming, 

A State's Need of Virtue, Thomson, . . 

A Strip of Blue Larcom, . . 

A Summer INIood, "Vr'A-'^' ' " ' 

A Summer Morning McAai/ . . . 

A Summer Noon at Sea, Mirgent, . . 

A Sunset Picture, falconer, . . 

At a Club Dinner, -■y"™'^' • • 

At Divine Disposal, ^"!r"/.^^A • " 

At Dawn, ^-f^- ■''.• f «'•*•' 

A Tempest, ^''?.'%'^'''\,-- 

At Home, f/./v -^o***"'' 

A Thought, ^''^''''"' ■ • ■ 

A Thought of the Past, Snrf/ent, . . 

A Thrush in a Gilded Cage V.'7",' , '' ', ' ' 

■Vt Last Stoddard, . . 

At the (3hurch-gate, rhackeray, . 

At the Forge, t fl'n j\ ' " 

At the Last, iruJ'u 

At Sea, . H.H,Brownell, 

At Sea Jenmson, . . 

At Sea; Moulon, . . 

Auf Wiedersehen, Loircll, . . . 

Auld Robin Gray, JJarnard . . 

Austerity of Poetry, ^^- ArnoUi, . 

Autobiography, Jiarerjial, . . 

Autumn, Hoplcins, . . 

Autumnal Sonnet, AUmgImm, . 

Autumn Song, Hutchmson, . 

Avarice, . f; Spenser, . 

A Voice from Afar, Netimaii, . . 

Awaking of the Poetical Faculty, An/.vr, . . • 

A Welcome to Alexandra, lenmjson, . . 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Cunmngham, 

A Wife, Bryden, . . 

A Woman's Love, /"''.' V, ' / " 

A Woman's Question, ^,- ^- ^ rocter, 

A Woman's Way, Bunner, . . . 



B. 



Ballad, 

Barbara, .... 

Barbara Frietchie, 

Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

Battle of the Baltic, 

Bay Billy, . . . 

Beati llli, .... 

Beatitude, . . . 

Beauties of Morninj 

Beautiful Death, . 

Beauty's Immortality, 

Becalmed at Eve, . 

Beethoven, . . . 

feefore Dawn, . . 

Before the Bridal, 

Before the Prime, 

Behind the Mask, . 

Belinda, .... 

Bell and Brook, . 

Bending between Me and the Taper, 

Benevolence, 

Be Quiet, Do, . 

Betrayal, . . . 

Beyond Recall, 

Bingen on the Rhine, 



Hood, . 

A. Smifh, 

J. G. Whittier, 

Howe, 

Campbell, 

Gassaicaij, 

Symonds, 

A. T. Be Vere, 
Beattiv, . . 
Dry den, 
Keats, . . 
Clouqh, . . 
Tlia'cter, . 
Thompson . . 

B. Taylor, . 
Osgood, . . 
Whitney, . 
Pope, . . 

S. T. Coleridge. 
A. T. De Vere. 
Sigourney, 
Mackay, 
Lanier, . 
Bradley, 
Xorton, . 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Birds and their Loves, Thomson, 503 

Blessed are They that Mourn, Bryant, 72 

Books, Crabbe, 1^0 

Bosom Sin, Herbert 265 

Boyhood, AJlston 1!) 

Break, Break, Break, Jennysmi, 584 

Breatlies there the Man, *«>« 478 

Breathings of Spring, •?'''"""*'', : , ' • • • ^^^ 

Broken Friendships S. I . Coteriih/e. . . . 13(i 

Bugle Song Tennyson, 577 

Burial of Sir John ISIoore, Wolfe. G65 

Burns Halltck, 249 

But Heaven, O Lord, 1 cannot Lose, E.D. Proctor, . . . 44K 

Bvroirs Remarkable Prophecy Byron 103 

By tlie Autumn Sea, Hayne, 250 

By the Dead, LuiglUon 324 



c. 

Calling the Dead, 

Calm and Tempest at Night on Lake Leman, 

Calm on the Bosom of our God, 

Carailoc, the Bard of the Cymrians, 



S. M. B. Piatt. ... 421 

Byron, 101 

Hevians, 263 

E. B. Lytton 839 

705 
4 
547 
840 
584 
206 
286 
639 
431 
308 



Careless Content, Byrom, . . . 

Cato's Soliloquy Addison, . . 

Cayuga Lake Street, . . . 

Changes, B. B. Lytton, . 

Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson, . . 

Charity Dryden, . . 

Charity ('• Hau<ihto)i. 

Charity, A'. //. U'hitticr. 

Charity Gradually Pervasive, Pope, . . . 

Charles XIL, S. Jolin.<<oii, . 

Cheerfulness in Misfortune E. )onn;/ 684 

Circumstance Tennyson, 585 

City Experience Leland, 744 

Cleansing Fires, A. A. Procter, . . . 442 

Clear the Way Mac/cay, 362 

Cleonandl, ." Mac/cay, ..... 362 

Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus, Hervey, 267 

Cold Comfort, DIant, 803 

Columbus, Sir A. De Fere, ... 184 

Come, Let us Anew, Wesley, 633 

Come not when 1 am Dead Tennyson 585 

Come, ye Disconsolate, Moore 38* 

Compensation, Crancli 174 

Complaint and Keproof, S. T. Coleridge, ... 141 

Comjilete, Collier, 143 

Conclusions P- Cary, 

Concord Fight, Emerson, 

Condition of Spiritual Communion, Tennyson 

Conscience, E. Youny, . . 

Consecration C. F. Bates, . 



Consolation, E. B. Browniny, 

Constancy, Suckling, . . . 



126 
215 
575 
678 
31 
63 
550 

Constant "liffort Necessary to Support Fame Shakespeare. .... 486 

Content and Rich, Southwell 525 

Contentation, Cotton, 154 

Contentment Thomson, 597 

Contoocook River, E. J). Proctor, ... 447 

Controversialists, Crabbe, 168 

Convention, Howells, 292 

Coquette, Robertson 851 

Counsel, A. Cary 121 

Couplets from Locksley Hall, Tennyson 573 

Courage, G. Houghton, ... 285 

Courage Thaxter, 589 



CONTENTS. 



Courtesy, J- T. Fields, . 

Cradle Song, Holland, . . 

Cradle Song, Tennyson, . . 

Critics E.B. Browning, 

Critics, Byron, . . . 

Cruelty, E- Young, . . 

Cuba, Hargent, . . 

Cui Bono, G. Arnold, . . 

Cui Bono Carlyle, . . . 

Cupid Grown Careful, Croly, . . . 



D. 

Daily Dying E. I). Proctor, 

Daisy, G. Houghton, 

Day breaming, Kimball, . 

Dead Love, P- Cary, 

Death, Hu7it, . . 

Death, . . ., Shelley, . . 

Death amid the Snows, Thomson, 

Death and Resurrection Deattie, . 

Death in Life A[. M. Dodge, 

Death of the Day, Landor, . . 

Death the Leveller, Shirley, 

December, Morris, . . 

December, Hopkins, 

Decoration, Higginson,. 

Decoration Ode, Timrod. . . 

Delay, Jlushiiell, . 

Delay, Saxton, . . 

Departure of the Swallow, JF. Hoiritt . 

Dependence, Jennison, . 

Descanting on Illness, Cowper, . . 

Description of the One he would Love, Wyati, . . 

Deserted Nests, -Phelj>b\ . . 

Despite All, Drummond , 

Destiny T. B. Aldrich, 

Die down, O Dismal Day I). Gray, 

Different Sources of Funeral Tears, E. Young, 

Dirge for a Soldier, Bolcer, '. 

Discontent, Thaxter, 

Disdain Returned Carcir, . 

Distance no Barrier to the Soul, Cowley, . 

Divorced, Lord Houghton, 

Doctor Drollhead's Cure, Anonymous, 

Dolcino to Margaret, Kingsley, . 

Domestic Happiness, Campbell, . 

Door and Window, //.A'. Do/-r, 

Dorothy Q., Holmes, . . 

Dow's Flat, Harte, . . 

Dreams li. Browning, 

Drifting, Bead, . . 

Driving Home the Cows, K. P, Osgood, 

Dullness, Pope, . . . 

Dying, BucharMU, 



E. 

Early Death and Fame, M. Arnold, 

Early Rising Saxe, . . . 

Early Summer, Hopkins, . 

Easter-day, .• O. fVilde, . 

Easter Morning Mace, . . 

East London, M. Arnold, 

Effect of Contact with the World E. Young, . 



Effort the Gauge of Greatness E. Young 680 

Egyptian Serenade Curtis, 181 

Elegy in a ('(umlrv Churchyartl, T. Gray 240 

End of all Earthly Glory Shakespeare, .... 487 

Endurance, . . " Allen, 14 

Entered into Rest Bolton, 805 

Enviable Age, S. Johnson, . . . . 30K 

Epistle to Augusta Byron 95 

Epigram, f!- T. ColerUhje, . . 711 

Epitaph Hervey, 1^68 

Epitaph D. Jonson 310 

Epithalamium, BrainanI, 

Equinoctial Whitney, 

Equipoise, Preston, 

Estrangement through Trifles, Moore, 385 

Evelyn Hope B. Broivniny. ... 69 

Evening, Croly 178 

Evening, Wordswortli 675 

Evening'Prayer at a Girls' School, Hemans, 26:2 

Evening Song Lanier, 328 



636 
434 



Eventide, ."'. Burbulge, 

Every Day, Allen, . 

Excessive Praise or Blame, Pope, 

Excess to be Avoided, Thomson, 



Exhortation to Marriage, 

Exile of Erin, 

External Impressions Dependent on the Soul's Moods, 

Extract from " A Reverie in the Grass," 

Extracts from Miss Biddy's Letters 



... 809 

... 17 

... 433 

... 596 

Bogers, 461 

Campbell 112 

Crahbe, 167 

MacLay 365 

Moore 760 



479 
739 
740 
606 

485 



F. 

Faciebat, Abbey 2 

Fair and Fifteen Bedden, 848 

Fair and Unworthy Ayton. 798 

Faith, . .- Kenible, 318 

Faith in Doubt, Tennyson, 575 

Faith in Unfaith, Scott, . . 

Faithless NeUie Grav, Hood, . . 

Faithless Sally Brown, Hood, . . 

Falling Stars, Trench, . . 

False Appearances, Shalcespenre 

False Terrors in View of Death E. Yoking, 682 

Fame, B. B. Lytton, . . . 753 

Fancy, Keats 311 

Fantasia Spofford, 530 

Fare Thee Well, Byron, 92 

Farewell, Symonds, 559 

Farewell, Thaxter, 586 

Farewell, Life, Hood 283 

Farewell of the Soul to the Body Sigourney 499 

Farewell, Renown, Dobson, 190 

Farewell to Nancy, Burns 84 

Fatherland and IVIother Tongue, Lover, 748 

Father Molloy Lover, 748 

Fear no More, Shakespeare, .... 488 

Fear of Death Shakespeare 487 

February Morris, 389 

Few in Many, B. B. Lytton, ... 752 

Field Flowers, Campbell, ill 

Fingers, Ao//, ••, ,• 

First Appearance at the Odeou J. T. Fields, 

Five, : J. C. B. Don 

Florence Nightingale, E. Arnold, 

Florence Vane ^- J'- Cooke, 

Flower and Fruit, Thomas, 

Flowers without Fruit, 



836 
227 
195 
2^* 
151 
853 
Newman, 396 



Folly of Litigation, Crahbe, 164 

For a Servant, Wither, ...... 6C3 

For a' Tliat and a' That, JIurns, 82 

For a Widower or Widow, Wither, 662 

Forbearance, Emerson, 215 

Forget Me Not, Sarr/ent, 469 

Foreliiiowletltte Undesirable, Tupper, 620 

Forever, . " O'Jieilh/, 400 

Forever Unconfessed, Lord Houghtoti, . . . 288 

Forever with the Lord, Montgomerij, .... 385 

For his Child's Sake, Tennyson, 577 

For my own Monument, Prior, 772 

France Goldsmith, .... 236 

Friend after Friend Departs, Montgomery, .... 384 

Friendship, Simms, ,503 

Friendsliip in Age and Sorrow, Crahbe, 168 

Fritz and I C. F. Adams, .... 686 

From " Absalom " Willis, 654 

From " An Ode to the Rain," S. T. Coleridyc, . . . 710 

From " A Preacher," Webster, 62;» 

From a " Vision of Spring in Winter," Swinburne, 552 

From a Window in Chamouni, Moulion, 846 

From " Childhood," Faiu/han, 622 

From " Christmas Autiphones," Sivinburne, .... 556 

From " Dejection," S. T. Coleridtje, . . ., 136 

From " Eloisa to .-ibelard," Pope,. . .'. . . . 429 

From Far Marston 843 

From Friend to Friend, Stimonds, 560 

From " Intimations of Immortality," Wordsivorth, .... 670 

From " Lines composed in a Concert Room," .... S.T.Coleridge,. . . 710 

From " Ij^ies to a Louse," Burns, 698 

From " Making Poetry," Harergal 826 

From ]\lire to Blossom, S. Longfclloic, . . . 346 

From " No .\ge is Content," Earl of Surrey, . . . 551 

From " Nothing to Wear," Jl'. A. Butler, . . . . 701 

From " Poverty," Wither 662 

From " Rules and Lessons," Vaiighaii, 024 

From " St. Mary Magdalen," Vau'ghuii 622 

From " The Christian Politician," Vavghun 623 

From " The Cock and the Fox," JJri/den 722 

From the " Elixir," Herbert, 827 

From the " Exequy on his Wife," King, 836 

From the Flats, Lanier, 328 

From the '' Lay of Horatius," Macaulay 354 

From " The Ode on Shakespeare," Sprague 534 

From " The Sensitive Plant," Shelley, 493 

From "The Thief and the Cordelier," Prior 774 

From "To a Lady with a Guitar," Shelley, 495 



G. 

Ganging to and Ganging frae, E. Coo!:, l.W 

Garden Song, Tennyson, 580 

Genius, Byron, 99 

George Eliot, Phelps, 416 

Glasgow A. Smith 505 

Gleaner's Song, Bloomjield, 43 

God's Patience, Preston, 435 

God, the only Just Judge, Burns, 85 

Goethe (^Memorial Verses) M. Arnold, .... 25 

Go, Forget me, Wolfe 665 

Go not, Happy Day, Tennyson, 581 

Good Counsel, Chaitrcr, 811 

Good Life, Long Life, " . . . Johnson 310 

Good Counsel of Polonius to Laertes, Shal.'es/ieare, .... 485 

Good Morrow, Heyirood, 268 

Goodness E. B. Browning, . . 688 



CONTENTS. 



Good News, 

GoodNiglit, 

Gray, 

Greece, 

Green Things Growing, . . . 
Grief for the Loss of the Dead, 

Guardian Spirits, 

Gulf-weed, 



Klmhall, 31f> 

Hhelh'ii, 4!)5 

Ticknor, 854 

JJyirm, 105 

t'raik, 170 

Quarles 451 

Rogers, 464 

Fenner, 224 



H. 

Hallowed Ground, 

Hand in Hand with Angels 

Hannah Binding Shoes, 

Happiness 

Happiness in Little Things of the Present, .... 

Happy are They, 

Hark "to the Shouting Wind 

Harmosan, 

Harsh Judgments, 

Harvesting, 

Harvest Time, 

Health Necessary to Happy Life, 

Heart Essential to Genius 

Heart-glow, 

Heart Oracles 

Heart Superior to Head, 

Heaven near the Virtuous, 

Heliotrope 

Helvellyn, . . . 

Her Conquest, 

Hereafter, 

Heroes, 

Her Roses 

Hester, 

Hie Jacet, 

Hidden Joys, 

Hidden Sins 

Highland Mary, 

Hints of Pre-existence, 

History of a Life, 

Hohenlinden, 

Homage, 

Home and Heaven 

Home, Wounded, 

Hope, 

Hope for All . . 

Htipe in Adversity, 

How are Songs Begot and Bred ? . . . 

How Cyrus laid the Cable, 

How Delicious is the Winning, 

How the Heart's Ease tirst Came, 

How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 

How to Deal with Common Natures 

Hudson River, 

Humanity, 

Husband to Wife, 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Valley of Chamouui, . . 

Hymn for Anniversary Marriage Days, 

Hymn from " Motherhood," 

Hymn to Trust, 

Hymn to Contentment, 

Hymn to Cynthia, 

Hymn to the Flowers, . 



Campbell -108 

Larcom, 332 

Larcnm, 329 

Mackaij, 757 

Trench, C05 

A. T. I)e Vere, . . . 185 

Tim roil, 855 

Trcvch CO(i 

Fabcr, 21G 

B/oomfield, .... 41 

Thomson 592 

Th<mison, .597 

Simms, 502 

Whitneii, 63« 

M. M. bodge 192 

Ilogers 461 

Larcom. 333 

Kimball, ...... 319 

Scott 481 

Unsxell 851 

Spofford 529 

£. 1). Proctor, . • . 448 

Jennison, 832 

Lamb, 325 

Moulton 84G 

Blanchard 801 

O'Pxeilhj, 401 

Burns, 85 

Tupper 619 

B. \V. Proctor, . . . 445 

Cnmpbdl, 112 

Winter 659 

Veni, 627 

Dolx'll, 189 

Goldsmith,. . . . . 237 

Tenni/son, 574 

Campbell 116 

Stoddard, 541 

Sa.ce, 775 

Cam])bell ' . 110 

Herrick, 266 

R. Brownlnq, ... 70 

Hill, ...'.... S27 

Parsons, 408 

E. B. Broicning, . . 689 

T>'nni/so7i, 579 

S. T.' Coleridge, . . . 138 

Withers 662 

Hopkins, 829 

Holmes, 279 

Parnell, 407 

Jonson, 310 

H. Smith, 510 



CONTENTS. 



I. 

I Count my Time by Times that I Meet Thee Gilder, 232 

Ideals Fmocett, 219 

1 Die for tliv Sweet Love, li. W. Procter, . . . 446 

If M. n. Smith, .... 513 

It it :\Iust Be, n. Gray, S22 

If tliis Be All, A. Bronte, 53 

If 'J'hou Wert by my Side, Hcber, 258 

If We Had but a Day, Dickinson, 188 

If You Love me L. Clark, 128 

I in Thee and Thou in Me, Cranch, 176 

Ilka Blade o' Grass Keps its ain Drap o' Dew, .... Ballanfinc, .... 28 

111-choseu Pursuits, Tupper, 614 

111-ehristened, Tnpper, 618 

II Penseroso, Milton 376 

Imagined Reply of Eloisa, Howe, 2S9 

I'm Growing Old, Saxe 474 

Imitation, BicharcUon, .... 459 

Immortality M. Arnold 24 

I'm not a Single Man, Hood 737 

Impressions du Matin O. Wilde, 648 

In a Graveyard, . Hay, 253 

In a Letter Jennison 8.32 

In an Hour, Perry, 415 

In Arabia J. B. Bensel, .... 38 

In Autumn, Boker, 804 

In a Year R. Browning, .... 68 

In Blossom Time Coolbrith 153 

Incompleteness, A. A. Procter, . . . 443 

Independence, Thomson, 



I Never Cast a Flower away. 



V. B. /Soiifheij, . . . .515 



In Extremis, J. T. Fields, 

Influence Coolidge, 814 

In (iartield's Danger, Brackett ,52 

Ingratitude, , , " , Shakespeare, .... 484 

In Kittery Churchyard Thaxter 589 

In Memory of Barry Cornwall, Swinbvrne, .... 5.52 

In no Haste, Landor, 327 

In November, P. U. Johnson. . . . 8.34 

In Praise of his Lady Love Compared with all Others, , £arl of' Svrreij, . . . 551 

In School Days J. G. Uniittier, ... 640 

Ins<:-riiition, Byron, 94 

Insisniticant Existence, Watts, 8,55 

InStiuiigle E. B.Browning, . . 67 

Insufficiency of the World, E. Young 680 

In the Dark, G. Arnold 23 

In the Meadows, B. Taylor, 566 

In the Quiet of Nature, Cotton, 154 

In View of Death M. Collins, .... 144 

Invocation, Riordan 850 

I prithee Send me back my Heart, Suckling, 5.50 

I Kemember, I Kemember, Hood, '. 280 

Irwin Russell, Btmner, 808 

I Saw from the Beach, Moore, 387 

Is it all Vanity E. B. Lytton, .... 838 

Isolation, E. Gray, 240 

I Wandered by the Brookside, Lord Houghton, . . . 287 

I will Abide in thine House, Whitney, 638 

I will not Love, . Landor, 328 



J. 

Jasmine Hai/ne, . . 

Jeanie Morrison, Mothenvell, 

Jerusalem the Golden, „ Massey, . . 



257 
392 
367 



CONTENTS. 



Jesus, Lover of my Soul, 



Wesley, 632 



John Anderson my Jo, Burns, 84 

John Gilpin Cowper, 711 

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle Hay, 731 

John Day, Hoocl, 735 

Joy to be Shared, £■ Young. , . . • . 978 

Judge Not, A. A. Procter, . . . 440 

Judgment in Studying it, Dryden, 205 

July Jackson, 831 

June, Bryant, 73 

June, Loiveil, 351 

Just Judgment, Pope, ...... 432 

Justice Richardson 459 

Justice the Regenerative Power, E. B. Lytton 839 



K. 

Keep Faith in Love, Miller, 374 

Kilcoleman Castle, Joyce, 834 

Kiudness tirst Known in a Hospital, E. B. Browning, , . 66 



L. 

Labor Lord Houghton, . . . 286 

Laborare est Orare, . , F. S. Osgood, . . . 402 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere • . . Tennyson 583 

Lagrimas, . - Hay 255 

Lake George, Hi/lard, 269 

L'Allegro, Milton, 375 

Landing of the Pilgrims Hemans, 263 

LarvtB • Whitney, 638 

Last Allen, 15 

Last Lines, E. Bronte, 54 

Last Verses, M. Collins 144 

Last Verses, Motherwell, .... 391 

Last Words S. M. B. Piatt, ... 419 

Late Summer, Hojjkins, 829 

Late Valuation, Tapper, 620 

Laugliter and Death, Blunt, 803 

Launcli thy Barli, Mariner, C. B. Soiitltey, . . . 514 

Laura, my Darling, Stedman, 535 

Learning is Labor, Crabhe 164 

Left Behind, Moulton, 845 

Letters, Tapper, 615 

Life, Barbauld, 28 

Life Bryant 76 

Life, A. Cary, 119 

Life Crabbe, 168 

Life B. W. Procter, ... 444 

Life, Tapper 620 

Life a Victory, B. B. Lytton, .... 841 

Life from Death, Holland 273 

Life in Death, Savage, 472 

Life's Mystery, A. Cary, 122 

Life's Mystery Stoa-e, 544 

Life's Tlieatre Shah/speare 484 

Life's Vicissitudes, Shnlrspean, .... 487 

Ijife will be Gone ere I have Lived C. Broate 54 

Light, Bourdillon, .... 50 

Liglit on the Cloud Snroge 473 

Liglit Sliining out of Darltness, Cawjicr, 1.57 

Like a Laverock in the Lift, Jcun Ingelow, . . . 307 

Lilce as a Nurse, raugluin, 626 

Lines on a Prayer-book, Crashaw. 816 

Lines to a Comic Author S. T. Coleridge, . . . 710 



CONTENTS. 



Listening for God, Gannett, 

Litany to the Holy Spirit, Herrick, 

Little Billee, Thackeray, 

Little Breeches, Hay, . . . 

Little Gitfen, Ticknor, 



228 
266 
783 
730 
854 

Little Jerry, the Miller, Saxe, 474 

562 
245 

61 
252 

59 
807 
428 
603 
111 
836 
817 

56 
468 



Little Kindnesses Talfourd, 

Little Martin Craghan, Gu'stafson, . . . 

Little Mattie E. B. Broitning, 

Lone Mountain Cemetery, Bret Harte, . . 

Long Ago, . . ' H. H. Broivnell, . 

Longfellow, Bunner, .... 

Lord Byron, Potlok, .... 

Lord, Many Times I am Aweary, Trench 

Lord Ullin's Daughter, Campbell, . . . 

Lord, when 1 Quit this Earthly Stage, Watts, . . 

Loss Af. B. Dodge, . . 

Losses Brown, .... 

Lost Days, I). G. kossetti, . 

Love, Botta, 50 

Love, S. Butler, 87 

Love Byron 97 

Love S. T. Coleridge, ... 141 

Love, Scott, 478 

Love, Tennyson, 579 

Love Bettered by Time, Hood, 284 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education, S. T. Coleridge, ... 140 

Love in Age, Tilton, . . ' . . . . 598 

Lovely Mary Donnelly, AUingham, .... 686 

Love me if I Live, B. ]V. Procter, . . . 444 

Love of Country and of Home, Montgomery , . 

Love of the Country, Dloomfield, 

Love Reluctant to Endanger, H. Taylor, . . 

Love's Reward, Bourdillon, 

Love shall Save us all, Thaxter, . . 

Love's Immortality B. Southey, 

Love's . Jealousy, Gilder, 



Love's Sonnets, 

Love's Philosophy, Shelley, 

Love, the Retriever of Past Losses, Shakespeare, . 

Love, the Solace of Present Calamity, Shakespeare, . 

Love Unalterable, Shakespeare, . 

Low Spirits, Faber, . . . 

Lucy, Wordsicorth, . 

Lyric of Action, Hague, . . . 



. 382 

. 42 

. 570 

. 50 

. 588 

. 517 

. 233 

Bokcr, 46 

" "■ . 492 

. 489 

. 488 

. 489 

. 217 

. 672 

. 827 



M. 

Madonna Mia, O. Wilde, .."... 647 

Maiden and Weathercock H. W. Longfellow, . . 343 

ISIaid of Athens, Byron 94 

INlajor and Minor, Curtis, 181 

Make thine Angel Glad, C. !<'. Bates, .... 31 

Making Peace, S. M. B. Piatt, ... 420 

Man Pope, 430 

INIan and Woman, Tennyson 578 

Manhood, Simms 503 

^ - - -- _ jjj. 

. 461 

. 85 

. 12 

. 831 

. 389 

. 248 

. 12 

. 643 



Man's Dislike to be Led, Crabbe, . . . 

Man's Restlessness, Pagers, . . . 

Man was Made to Mourn Burns, . . . 

Maple Leaves T. B. Aldrich, 

March, Jackson, . . 

March Morris, . . . 

Marco Bozzaris, Halleck, . . 

Masks T. B. Aldrich, 

Maud .Muller J. G. Whittier, 



May, 



Cheney, 812 



CONTENTS. 



May, Mason 844 

May and the Poets Hunt, 301 

May ill Kingston Abbey, 2 

May to April, Freneau, 2l!8 

^Measure for Measure Spofford, 531 

Melancholy, Hood, 27!) 

Melrose Abbey by Moonlight, t<<-ott, 478 

Memorial Hall, ." i'mnch, 174 

Memory, Goldsmith 237 

Memory lioyers, 463 

Mene, ^leiie, Si/monds, 558 

Mental Beauty Akcnside, 7 

Mental Supremacy, Tiipj>er, 616 

Mercy ' Sha/cespeare, .... 486 

Mercy to Animals, Coicper, 160 

Merit beyond Beauty, Pope, 768 

Middle Life He dd enrich, .... 258 

Midnight Brinvnell, 58 

Midsummer Saxton 852 

Midsummer, Troivbridge, .... 609 

Midwinter Trowbridge, .... 608 

Mine Own, Leland, 339 

Miracle CooUdge, 814 

Misspent time, A. De Verv, .... 184 

Monterey, Hoffman, 270 

More Poets Yet, Dobson, 722 

Morning and Evening by the Sea, J. T. Fields, .... 225 

Move Eastward, Haiipy Earth, Tennyson 585 

Music in the Air, Curtis 181 

Music when Soft Voices Die Shelley 492 

Mutability, Shelley, 495 

My Ain Countree, Demarest, 183 

My Answer, Boker, 804 

My Child Pierpont, 422 

My Comrade and I, , Trowbridge 613 

My Held is like to Rend, Willie Motherwell 391 

My Life is like the Summer Kose, E. H. Wilde, .... 649 

My Little Boy that Died, Craik 172 

My Love is on her Way, Baillie, 27 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is, Dyer, 819 

My Nasturtiums, Jackson, 832 

Mv Old Straw Hat, F.Cook, 150 

Mv own Song, Spofford 531 

My Playmate, J. G. W'hittier, ... 646 

My Psalm, J. G. Whittier, ... 641 

My Saint, Moutton, 845 

My Slain, Pealf, 457 

My Window Ivv, M. M. Bodge, . . . 191 



N. 

Kameless Pain, T. B. Aldrich, 

Names S. T. Coleridge, 

Kantasket, Clemmer, . . 

Katura Naturans, Clough, . . . 

Nature, H. IV. Longfellow, 

Nature, Very, . . . 

Nature's Joy Inalienable, Thomson, . . 

Nature's Lesson, Preston, . . 

Nature's Need, Sir H. Taylor, 

Nature's Question and Faith's Answer, R. Soulhey, . 

Nature's Keverence, J. G. Whittier, 

Nearer Home, P. Cary, . . 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, S. F. Adams, . 

Nearing the Snow-line, Holmes, . . . 

Nearness, Boker, . . . 

New Life, New Love Symonds, . . 



CONTENTS. 



New Worlds 

Night, 

Night 

Night Storm, 

No Life Vain, 

No More, 

No Ring 

No Spring without the Beloved, 
Not at Ail, or All in All, . 
Not for Naught, .... 
Nothing but Leaves, . . 

November, 

Now and Afterwards, . . 
Now Lies the Earth, . . . 
Number One 



O. P. Lathrop, 
Lazaru.f, 
J!. Soutlwij, 

Simma, . . 
H. Coler-idcje, 
Cloucjh, . . 
Car 11, . . 
Shaht'speare, 
Tenni/.'ioii, . 
E. Eiliott, . 
Alcennan, . 
H. Coleridge, 
Craik, . . 
Tennyson, . 
Hood,. . . 



o. 

Ode, Emerson, 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton T. Gray, 

Ode on Art, Sprac/ue, 



Ode on the Death of Thomson, 

Ode on the Poets, . . 

Ode on tlie Spring, 

Ode to a Mountain Oak, 

Ode to an Indian Coin, „ 

Ode to Disappointment H. K. White, 

Ode to a Nightingale, Keats, 



W. Collins, .... 148 

Keats, 311 

T. Gray, 233 

Bolcer 43 

Leyden .339 

. . 6.3.5 

. . 312 



Ode to Evening. ~ IV. Collins 147 

Ode to Simplicitv, W. Collins, .... 144 

Ode to the Brave, IV. Cnllins 14.5 

Olf Labrador, Collier, 142 

Of Myself, Cowley, 145 

Oft in the Stillv Night, 3Ioore, 386 

Oh ! Watch vou Well bv Daylight, Lorer 347 

Oh ! Why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud?. . . Knox, 322 

O Lassie ayont the Hill, Macdonald, .... 359 

Old, Hoyt, 296 

Old Age and Death, Waller, 628 

Old Fiiniiliar Faces Lamh 325 

O may I -loin the Choir Invisible G. Eliot, 2nj 

On a Child, Rogers, 461 

Only a Curl, E. B. Browninq, ... 65 

On a Girdle Waller, 628 

On a Sermon against Glory, Akenside, 4 

On Completing iny Thirty-Sixth Year, Byron 107 

On Doves and Serpents Quarles, 451 

One by One, A. A. Proeter, . . . 440 

One Presence Wanting Byrnn, 104 

One Lesser Jov Coolidf/e, 81.", 

One Word is too often Profaned, Shelley, 49(1 

On his Blindness, MlHoti 379 

Only, Haijeman, 247 

Only Waiting, Marc 360 

On l\lan Quarles 451 

On One who Died in :May, C.Cook, 812 

On Reaching Twenty-Three, Milton, 380 

On Reading Chapman's Homer, Kents, 314 

On Resignation, Chatterton, .... 810 

On Sin, Quarles, 451 

On the Blutf. , . • Hay 254 

On the Death of .John Rodman Drake Hailed: 251 

On the Headland B. Taylor, 564 

On the Hillside, Synunuls, .559 

On the Lake Webster, 631 

On the Life of Man Qnarles 451 

On the Reception of Wordsworth, at Oxford, .... Talfourd 56ii 



CONTENTS. 



On the Picture of a Child Tired of Play, WiUh, . . 

OntheKighi, Holland, . 

On the Koad, Hutchinson, 

On the Shortness of Life, ('n)rle.ij, . . 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, Beaumont, . 

On Time, Miltnn, . . 

On True and False Taste in Music W. Col Unit, 

Other Mothers, Butts, . . 

O Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tears, Moorr, . . 

Our Homestead, P. Cari/, 

Our Neighbor, Spoford, 

Our Own, Snnr/stcr, 



. . 651 

. . 275 

. . 8.S8 

. . 156 

. . 37 

. . 374 

. . 145 

. . 89 

. . 386 

. . 127 

. . 530 

. . 468 

Ours, Preston, 434 

Outof the Darli, Shurtleff, 852 

Out of the Deeps of Heaven, Stoddard, 542 

Outre-niort Jcnnison, 832 

O ye Tears Mackay 364 



Pain and Pleasure, Stoddard 542 

Pairing-time Anticipated, Coirper 716 

Palmistry Spoffbrd, 530 



225 
478 
459 
604 
685 
479 
622 
399 
135 
194 
64 
370 
472 
171 
169 
67 
729 
336 
677 
171 

Poor Andrew, E. Elliott, 211 

Power of Poesy A. T. ])e '/ere, . . . 184 

Power of the World, E. Younii, 683 

Prayer, Montf/omeri/, .... 383 

President Garfield, //. IF. Lomifvllow, . . 837 

Press on, Benjamin, .".... 799 

Procrastination Tupper 621 

Procrastination and Forgetfuluess of Death, .... K. Younij, 677 

Progress in Denial Simms, '.' 501 

Prometheus, Bjirini 01 

Proposal, /;. '/'ai/lor, 565 

Prospice, /?. Brmrninf/, . ... 68 

Providence, Vaur/Iian 623 

Pure and Happy Love Thomson, 591 

Purity G. Hout/hfon, .... 286 

Pursuit and Possession, T. B. Aldrich, . ■ . 11 



Passage from the Prelude A. Fields, 

Paternal Love, Scott, . . . . 

Patience, llichardson, . . 

Patience, Trencli, . . . . 

Pat's Criticism, C.F.Adams,. . 

Payments in Store, Scott, . . . . 

Peace, Vaui/han, . . . 

Peace and Pain, O'lt'eilly, . . . 

Penance of the Ancient Mariner, S. T. Colerideje. . 

Peradventure, J. C. B. Dorr, 

Perfect Love, E. B. Broivnin//, 

Persia Mitchell, . . . 

Pescadero Pebldes, Sarar/e, . . . . 

Philip my King Craik, . . . . 

Philosophy Crabhe 

Picture of" Marian Erie, E. B. Broicninej, 

Plain Language from Truthful James, Bret Ilarte, . . 

Pleasant Prospect, La:iarus, . . . 

Pleasure Mixed with Pain, W>iatt, . . . . 

Plighted Craik 



Q. 



Quaclt, Crabhe, 71s 

Quakerdom Halpine 726 

Quebec at Sunrise, Street, 545 



CONTENTS. 



Quebec at Sunset, 
Questionings, 
Quince, .... 



Street 545 

Hedge, ^59 

Praed TTI 



K. 



Railroad Rhyme, . . . 

Rain, 

Rattle the Window, . 
Reading the Milestone, 
Real Estate, .... 
Reason an aid to Revelation, 
Rebecca's Hvmn, .... 
Recognition of a Congenial Spirit, 
Recompense, . . . 
Recompense, . . . 
Recompense, . . . 
Recompense, . . . 
Reconciliation, . . 
Refuge from Doubt, 

Regret, 

Relaxation, . . . 
Remedial Sutfering, 
Remember, . . . 
Remember, . . . 

Repose, 

Remembrance, . . 
Remorse, .... 
Rencontre, . . . 
Reporters, . . . 
Requiescat, . . . 
Reverie, .... 

Resigning, 

Richard's Theory of the Mind, 
Riches of a Man of Taste, 
Ring out, Wild Bells, . 
Ripe Grain, . . 
Rock me to Sleep, 
Rondel, .... 
Rory O'More, . 
Rosaline, . . . 
Rose Aylmer, 

Rubles 

Rule, Britannia, 



Saxe, . . 
Burleigh, . 
Stoddard, . 
J. J. Piatt, 
Trowbridge, 
Cotrley, . . 
Scott, . . 
Moore, . . 
Annan, . . 
Simms, . . 
Pit/er. . . 
Tilt'm, . . 
Ten nyson, . 
Miller, . . 
O. Houghton, 
H. Taijlor, . 
P. Soufheg, 
Lazarus, 
C. G. Possetti 
TItomson, . 
E. Bronte, . 
Hay, . . . 
T. B. Aldrich, 
Crahbe, . 
O. Wilde, 
Thaxter, 
Craik, 
Prior, 
Akenside, 
Tennyson, 
Goodale, 
Allen, . 
Pay, . . 
Lorer, 
Lodge, . 
Landor, . 
Landor, . 
Thomson, 



s. 



Sabbath Morning • 

Sadness Born of Beauty, . . . 

Sailor's Song, 

Saint Peray ■ 

Sands of Dee, 

Saturday Afternoon, . . . , 
Scene after a Summer Shower, 
Schnitzerl's Philosopede, . . . 
Scorn not the Sonnet, . . . , 

Sea-way, 

Secrets, 

Seeking the Mayflower, . . 

Self, 

Self-dependence, 

Selfishness of Introspection, . 
Serve God and be Cheerful, . 

She and He, 

Shelling Peas, 



Grahame, . . 
Trench, . . . 
G. P. Lathrop, 
T. W. Parsons, 
Kingsley, . . 
Willis, . . ■ 
Korton, . . . 
Lfland, . . . 
Wordsworth, . 
Hutchinson, . 
Wheeler, . . 
Stefbnan, . . 
Symonds, . ■ 
M. Arnold, 
E. B. Broivning, 
Keicell, . . . 
E. Arnold, 
Cranch, ... 



CONTENTS. 



Sheridan's Ride, Bead, 453 

She's Gane to Dwell in Heaven, Cviniingham, . . . . 180 

She Walks in Be-.iuty Byron, 93 

She "Was a Phantom" of Delight, Wordsicorth, .... 674 

Silent Mothers, Helen lUch, .... 849 

Silent Songs, Stoddard 542 

Silhouettes, O. U'Ude 648 

Since All that is not Heaven must Fade, A'eb/e 16 

Since Yesterday Lord Hounhton, . . . 286 

Sir Marniaduke's Musings, Tilion, .' 601 

Sir Walter Scott at Pompeii, Landon, 327 

Sleep, T. li. Aldrich, ... 11 

Sleep Bijron, 97 

Sleep and Death, -^'i'.'/, 222 

Sleep the Detractor of Beauty, Crablie, 163 

Sly Lawyers, . Crahbc, 718 

Snatches of Mirth in a Dark Life, JkcUtie, 27 

Soft, Brown, Smiling Eves, Craiicli 176 

■ " ■ '" ■ '"■ ■ " "" ' 446 

501 
634 
323 
806 
509 
416 
513 



Softly Woo away her Breath, B. 11". Procter. 

Solace of the Woods, Siwvi.'i, . . 

Solitude, H. K. White, 

Somebody's Darling Lacoste, . . 

Somebody's Mother, Brine, . . 

Somebody Older, F. Smith, . 

Some Day of Days, Pernj, . . 

Sometime, M. li. Smith, 

Somewhere, Snxe, 474 

Song Camphell 115 

Song Campbell, 707 

Song, H. Colerid(/e, .... 134 

Song, r. G'. Jloss'etli, . . . 465 

Song from "Right," Harergal, 825 

Song of a Fellow-worker, O'Shavf/hnessi/, . . . 404 

Song of Egla, Brooh:s, ...... 55 

Song of Saratoga Sa.ve, 776 

Song of the Hempseed E. Cook 149 

Song of the Ugly Maiden, E. Cool:, 151 

Song on May Morning, Milton, 378 

Songs of Seven, Ingeloir, 301 

Songs Unsung, Stoddard 541 

Sonnet, O. Wilde, 648 

Sonnet Composed on Leaving England, Keats 311 

Sonnets from " Intellectual Isolation," Si/monds, 561 

Sonnet on Chillon, Bi/rnn 93 

Sonnets to Edgar Allan Poe, IVhilman, 856 

Sonnet to Hope Williams, 650 

Sonnet to Sleep Sidney 499 

Sorrows of Werther, Thach-raij, .... 783 

Soul of my Soul Saryent, 469 

Soul to Soul, Tennyson, 575 

Sound Sleep, CO. liossetti, . . . 465 

Spectacles, or Helps to Read, Byron, 706 

Spf nt and Misspent, A. Car;/, 121 

Spiritual Feelers Tuppe'r 615 

Sipiandered Lives, B. 'I'ai/lor, 566 

Stanzas from " Hymn on the Nativity," Milton, 379 

Stanzas from " Ciisa Wappy," Moir 381 

Stanzas from " .Service," J. T. Troicbridge, . . 612 

Stanzas from " Song of the Flowers," Hunt • . . 299 

Stanzas from the " Tribute to a Servant," Hou-e, 290 

Stanzas from "The True Use of Music," Wesley, 6.32 

Stanzas from " The Schoolmistress," Shenstone, 496 

Stanzas in Prospect of Death, Burns, 83 

Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, //. W. Lon(il'ellou\. . 342 

Still Tenanted Hiram Pieli 849 

Stonewall Jackson's Grave, Preston, 435 

Storm at Appledore, Lowell, 3.52 

Strength through Resisted Temptation, Holland 273 

Strive, Wait, and Pray, A. A. Procter, . . . 443 



CONTENTS. 



XXV 11 



strong Son of C4oil, Tennyson, .... 574 

Submission to Supreme Wisdom, I'ojx' 430 

Success Alone Seen Landon, 326 

Sufficient unto the Day, Sani/sfcr, 46S 

Summer Dawn at Loch Katrine, Scott, 4T6 

Summer Longings, McCarthy, oO!) 

Summer Kain Bennett, 38 

Sum up at Night, Hcrljcrf, 264 

Sundays, J'au</han 624 

Sunlight and Starlight, Whitney, 638 

Sun of the Sleepless, Byron, !12 

Sunrise, O. Wilde, 648 

Sunset in JIoscow, E. D. Proctor, . . . 44fl 

Sunshine, E. Oray, 823 

Sunshine in jMarcli, Gosse, 821 

Sweet Meeting of Desires, Patmore, 410 



T. 

Tam O'Shanter, Bums, 695 

Tears, Idle Tears, Tennyson .577 

Tell me, ye Winged Winds, Mockay, 366 

Tempestuous Deeps, Hopkins, 828 

Thanatopsis Bryant, 74 

Thankfulness, A. A. Procter, . . . 440 

Thanksgiving Hou-ells, ..... 2;t2 

That New World, S. M. B. Piatt, . . . 420 

The Adieu H. H. Brownell,. . . 58 

The Aged Oak at Oakley, Alford 13 

The American Flag, Drake, 197 

The Ancient Mariner Refreshed, S.T. Colerid(/e, ... 135 

Tlie Angels Kiss her, A. T. Dc Vere, ... 189 

The Angel's Wing, Lover, 347 

The Ap#llo, and Venus of INIedici Thomson, 595 

The Artist's Dread of Blindness, Webster, 630 

The Art of Book-keeping, Hood, 741 

The Ascent to Fame Beattie, .34 

The Avoidance of Keligious Disputes, Dryden, 205 

The Awful Vacancy, Cratihe, 105 

The Baby, Macdonald, .... 359 

The Ballad of Baby Bell T. B.Aldrich, ... 8 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse Thackeray , .... 782 

The Banks of Anner, Joyce 835 

The Barefoot Boy, J. G. Whittier, . . . 6.39 

The Battle of Blenheim, R. Southey, .... .520 

The Battle of the Kegs, Hopkinson, .... 742 

The Bees, Trench, 005 

The Belfry Pigeon, Willis 653 

The Belle of the Ball Praed, 760 

The Bells, Poe 424 

The Bible, Bri/den, 204 

The Biblical Knowledge of Hudibras, ,§. Butler 700 

The Bird let Loose, Moore, ...... 386 

The Birth of St. Patrick, Lover, 746 

The Blessed Damozel, L). G. Possetfi, . . . 467 

The Blue and the Gray, Finch, 227 

The Blue-bird's Song, Street .549 

The Bower of Adam and Eve, Milton 380 

The Brave at Home, . B. Read, 456 

The Bride Beautiful, Body and Soul, E. Spenser 524 

The Bridge of Sighs, Hood. 282 

The Broom Flower, Hou-itt 294 



The Burial of Moses, Alexander, 

The Burial of the Champion, of his Class, Willis, . . 

The Busts of Goethe and Schiller W. A. Butler, 

The Caliph's ^Magnanimity, Ahhey, . . 

The Canadian Spring, Street, . . 



12 

652 

88 

1 

546 



XXVIU 



CONTENTS. 



The 
Tlie 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
Tlie 
The 
The 
The 
Tlie 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
Tlie 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 



Captious, Covper, 716 

Captive Soul, E. Spenser, .... 525 

Cataract of Lodore i?. Soul hey, .... 521 

Cavalier's Song, Motlienrell, .... 392 

Chameleon, Merrick, 759 

Chess-board li. JS. Lytton, . . . 840 

Child and the Autumn Leaf, Lover, . . . . . . 'Ml 

Child and the Mourners Mackay, 361 

Child and the Sea, M. M. Dodge, ... 192 

Child Musician Dohson, 190 

Children, Dickinson, 187 

Child's Plea, Palfrey 847 

Charms of Nature, Becittie, .34 

Cigar, Hood, 738 

Clergyman and the Peddler, F. Bates, C87 

Close of Spring C. T. Smith, .... 507 

'■■ ■ " " - 454 

492 
826 
838 
383 



Closing Scene, Bead, 

Cloud, Shelley, . 

Col de Balm Haverijal, 

Comet, Lunt, . . 

Common Lot Montc/omery 



Condemned, Crabhe, 166 

Conqueror, Tapper 616 

Conqueror's Grave, Bryant, 79 

Coral Grove Perciral, 413 

Coral Insect Sigourney, 500 

Courtin', Loirell, 749 

Covered Bridge, Barker, 29 

Cricket, C. T. Smith, .... 507 

Crowded Street, Bryant, 78 

Crowning Disappointment, JS. Young, 679 

Cry of the Human, E. B. Browning, . . 65 

Cuckoo, Logan, 341 

Curtain of the Dark, Larcom, 330 

Datfodils, Wordsworth, .... 671 

Dead Bee, F. Bates, ....... 32 

Dead Christ, Hmce, 291 

Deaf Dalesman, Wordsn-orth, .... 669 

Death-bed Hood, 281 

Death of the Old Year, Tennyson, 582 

Death of the Virtuous Barb'auld, 28 

Development of Poetic Creations, Akenside, 5 

Diamond, Trench, 606 

Difference, BourdiUon, .... 51 

Dignity and Patience of Genius, Titpper, 615 

Discoverer Stedman 538 

Dispute of the Seven Days, Cranch, 721 

Distant in Nature and Experience, Campbell, 115 

Doorstep, Stedman, .537 

Double Knock, Hood 7.38 

Dragon-fly, , . . . CormoeU, 815 

Ebb-tide B. Southey, .... 522 

Eggs and the Horses, Anon., 793 

Eloquent Pastor Dead, Blan chard, .... 802 

Emphatic Talker, Cowjier, 715 

End of the Virtuous, E. Young, 6.s0 

Ermine, Trench, ' 605 

Erratic Genius, B. B. Lytton, .... 752 

Evening Cloud, IFilxon, 657 

Evening Wind Bn/ant, 76 

Faded Violet, T.'B. Aldrich, ... 11 

Family Man, Saxe, 779 

Family Meeting, Sprague, UVi 



Farewell, 
Fate of Poverty, . . 
Father, . . ' . . 
Ferry of Galloway, . 
First Day of Death, 



First Gray Hair T. H. Bayly, 



Donne, 818 

Johnson, 309 

B. Tail lor 504 

A. Gary, 120 

Byron, 97 



CONTENTS. 



XXIX 




The First Spring Day, 

The Flight of Youth, 

The Flight of Youth, 

The Flower o' Dumblane, 

The Flowers of the Forest, 

The Flowers in the Ground, 

The Folly of Hoarding, 

The Force of Trifles, . . ; 

The Fountain of Youth, 

The Four Seasons, 

The Freedom of the Good 

The Free Mind, 

The Fringed Gentian, 

The Future Lite, 

The Generosity of Kature, 

The Gift, 

The Glory of Death 

The Golden Hand, 

The Golden Silence, 

The Gold under the Roses, 

The Good Time Coming, 

The Grasshopper and Cricket, 

The Great Critics, 

The Greenwood 

The Groomsman to his Mistress, 

The Happiness of Passing one's Age in Familiar Places, 

The Hare and Many Friends 

The Harvest Call 

The Health, ~ 

The Heavenly Canaan, 

The Heliotrope, 

The Heritage, 

The Highest Good, 

The Holly Tree, 

The Hope of the Heterodox, 

The Horseman, 

The Horse of Adonis, 

The Hour of Death, 

The Housekeeper, 

The Human Tie, 

The Humble Bee, 

The Husband and Wife's Grave, 

The Iconoclast, ■ 

The Inner Calm 

The Invocation, 

The Isles of Greece, . • 

The Ivy Green, 

The Kingliest Kings, 

The Kitten, 

The Knight's Steed 

The Laborer 

The Lack of Children 

The Ladder of St. Augustine, 

The Lady Jaqucline 

The Lady of the Castle, 

The Land of the Leal, 

The Last Appeal 

The Last Flowers 

The Last j\lan 

The Last Words, 

The Learning of Hudibras, 

The Lent Jewels, • 

The Lesson of the Bee, 

The Lie, 

The Lighthouse, 

The Light in the AVindow, 

The Light of Keason, 

The Lilv-pond 

The Little IMan , 



C. G. nossetti, . . . 4G5 

H. Colerkhje 133 

fsfoddnrd, 540 

TannahiU, 563 

J. Ellvit 210 

S. M. JS. Piatt, ... 421 

Thom»on, 5!M! 

Tuppcr, Gl:) 

Butterirorth, .... 89 

TUton 600 

Cowjjer, l.'jS 

Garrison 229 

Bryant, 77 

Bryant 78 

Lmrcll, 349 

ll'ebater, 031 

E. Younq, 681 

J. J. Piatt, .... 418 

Winter, 661 

Ornv 846 

MacLxiy 363 

Hunt, 300 

Mackay 757 

Bowles, 51 

Bar-sons, 410 

Goldsmith, .... 235 

Gay, 725 

Burleif/h, 809 

Stoddard, 542 

Watts, 856 

i\face, 361 



t'//. 



348 



Parker. . . 
11. Simthey, 
B/arkic, . . 
ir. Youiaj, 
Shakespeare, 
Hemans, 



. 406 

. 518 

, . 800 

, . 858 

, . 488 

, . 261 

Lamb, 325 

J/. M. Dodge, . . . 191 

Emerson, 214 

Dana 181 

n. T. Cooke, .... 152 

Bonur, 48 

Hemans, 261 

Byron, 98 

D'ickens, 187 

Massey, 368 

Baillie 26 

S. Butler, 700 

Gallaf/lier, 820 

J!. Browniny, ... 71 

//. W. Longfellow, . 341 

P. Cary, 124 

fiensel, 800 

Xalrn 394 

Kimhall, 320 

Whitman, 857 

Camjihell, 109 

Jackson 830 



S. Butler 699 

Trench, 604 

Botta 50 

Ualeiifh, 452 

,S'. ][.' I'alfrey, ... 847 

Jfackai/, 364 

Dry den 204 

G. I'. Lathrop, ... 334 

Mackay, 758 



CONTENTS. 



The Little Shroud Landon, 326 

The Longing of Circe Mann, 842 

The Long White Seam, Inqr'loir 307 

Tlie Lost May, B.' Tai/Zor 567 

The Love-letter, J. J. J'in/t, .... 418 

The INlaid of Orleans Girding for Battle, i?. Southeii 517 

The iMarriage Knot, Stoddard', ! .... 781 

The Marriage of Despair, Brooks, 56 

The ISIeeting, H. W. Longfellow, . 342 

The ISIeans to Attain Happy Life, Ear/ of Surrey, . . . 551 

The Midges Dance ahoon the Burn Tannahill, .... 563 

The Misery of Excess, Bi/roii, 100 

Tlie Mistake, Stoddard, 780 

The Model Preacher, Drt/den, 207 

Tlie Modern Puffing System Moore, 760 

The Mood of Exaltation, A. T. De Vere, ... 186 

Tlie :\lorning Hills, Thompson 853 

The ;\Iotlier's Grief, Coolbrith, 154 

The ^lother, the Nurse, and the Fairy, Gnv, 726 

The Mysteries, Howells, 292 

The Mystery, B. Taylor, 507 

The Mystery of Life, Sir 11. Taylor, . . . 570 

The Mulberries, Hoirells, 292 

Then B. T. Cooke, .... 153 

The Name in the Bark, TrowbrUh/e, .... (507 

The New Year's Baby, IF. Carlefon, .... 709 

The Nightingale, Trench, 605 

The Nun and Harp, Spofford, 529 

The Nuns' Song, Teiini/snn, .581 

Tlie Old Man of the Mountain, Trowbridge, .... 611 

Tlie Old Man's Comforts, and how he Gained them, . . B. Soiitlie'i/, .... 517 

The Old Man's Motto Sare. . . ' 473 

The Old Oaken Bucket, Woodworth 666 

The Old Schoolhouse, ' Boc/ers, ...... 464 

The Old Sergeant, Wlllson, 655 

The ( )ld Story, Prescott, 433 

Tlie ( »ld Year and the New C. F. Bates, .... 31 

The One Universal Sympathy, E.B.Browning, . . 67 

The One White Hair, Landor. 743 

The Only Light Wesley, 632 

The Organist K. L. Bates, .... 32 

The Otlier Life the End of This, E. Young 681 

The Other World, Stowe, '. 544 

The Paradise of Cabul, Michell 371 

The Parson, Chancer, SIO 

The Parting Drayton, 198 

The Passage from Birth to Age Boq'ers 462 

The Passions, Collins, 145 

The Past, Bn/ant 73 



The I'auper's Deathbed, C. A. B. Southey, 

The Pauper's Funeral, B. Southey, 

The Perils of Genius, Crabhe, . ' . 

The Perpetuity of Song, J. T. Fields, 

The Perversion of Great Gifts, Rogers, . . 

The Petrified Fern, Branch, . 

The Picket Guard, Beera. ' . . 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin, 11. Browning, 



514 
519 
163 
225 
460 
53 
35 
690 
792 
422 
243 
701 

- . . - Landon, 327 

The Poet's Friends Howells 292 

The Poet's Pen, F. A. Hillard, ... 827 

The "Poet's Prayer," E. Elliott 212 

The Poet's Song to his Wife, B. ]V. Procter, . . . 445 

The Poplar Field, Cowper, 1.57 

The Polite di Paradiso, Symonds, .560 

The Post-boy Cowper 161 



The Pilgrims and the Peas, Wolcot, . 

'I'lie Pilgrim Fathers, Plerpont 

Tlie Pleasures Arising from Vicissitude, Gray, 

The Pleasure of being Cheated, S. Butler, 

The Poet Landon. ' 



CONTENTS. 



Power of Suggestion, 

Prairie, 

Prayer to Mnemosyne, 

Press, 

Pressed Gentian, . . 
Press of Sorrow, . . 

Primrose , 

Prince, 

Problem 

Prodigals 

Propuefs Song, . . . 
Prop of Faitli, . . . 

Pulley 

Purple of tlie Poet, . 

Pursuit, 

Puzzled Census-taker, 
Qualier Grave-yard, . 

Question, 

Kaven 



The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 
The 

The Kazorseller, 

The Readers of Dailies, 

There is Nothing New under the Sun, . 

The Religious Journal, 

There'll .Come a Day, , 

The Restored Pictures, 

The Return of Kane, 

The Rhodora, 

The Ride of Collins Graves 

The Right must Win, 

The River iu the Mammoth Cave, . , 

The River of Life 

The Rose, 

The Rose 

The Rose of Jericho 

The Sabbath of the Soul 

The Sailor's Wife, 

The Sandjiiper, 

The Sea, 

The Sea-limits, 

The Seasons, 

The Seed Growing Secretly, 

The Selfish, 

The September Gale, 

The Shadow, 

The Ship Becalmed, 

The Shipwreck, 

The Shower, 

The Sight of Angels 

The Silent Lover, 

The Skylark, 

The Sleep, 

The Smack in School, 

The Snake 

The Solace of Nature, 

The Soldanella, 

The Song of the Camp, 

The Song of the Shirt 

The Soul 

The Soul's Farewell, 

The Soul's Progress Checked, . . . . 
The Source of ^Nlan's Ruling Passion, . 

The Sower, 

The Speed of Happy Hours, 

The Spider 

The Spring-time will Return, . . . . 

The Squire's Pew, 

The Stanza added to Waller's " Rose," 

The Stars 

The Star-Spangled Banner, 



Tupj)er, . . . 
Ha;/, .... 

Si/mands, . . 
JEf. Ellintf,. . 
J. G. Whittier, 
Holtaml, . . 
Herrick, . . 
Hutclihison, . 
Emcr.ton, . . 
Dohson, . . . 
Goldsmilh, 
irordtiirortli. . 
Hn-htrt, . . . 
F. Smith, . . 
l^aiu/han, . . 
Saxc 



MUchell, 
Winter, . 
A. J'oe, . 



Wolcot, . . 

Cralibe, . . 

Gilder, . . 

Crahbe, . . 
Preston, 
Trowbridge, 

Broronell, . 

Emeraon, . 



617 

253 
560 
211 
646 
273 
266 
830 
213 
190 
237 
668 
263 
508 
622 
776 
844 
660 
425 
792 
717 
231 
717 
436 
608 



OTwilly, . . 
Faber, . . . 
Prentice, . . 
Campbell, . . 
T. li. Aldrich, 
Waller, . . . 
Searer, . . . 
Barhaidd, . . 
Mirkie, . . . 
Thaxter, . . 
li. W. Procter. 
D. G. Rossetti, 
Bennett, . . 
Vmujhan, . . 
liogern, . . . 
Holmes, . . . 
Preston, . . 
S. S. Coleridge, 
ml son. . . 



Van'/lian, 
J. J.' I'iatt, 
Bateigh, 
Hogg, 



E. li. Broicning, 

Palmer, . . . 

Trench, . . . 

Wordsirorth, . 

Clark, . . . 

B. Taylor, . . 

Hood, . . . 

Dana, . . . 

Gould, . . . 

Cou'per, . . 

Tupper, . . . 

Gilder, . . . 

Spencer, . . 

( 'onweil, . . 

Sargent, . . 

Taylor, . . . 



H. K. White, 
M. M. Dodge. 

Key. . . . 



214 
399 
216 
847 
114 

12 
628 
482 
798 
372 
591 
444 
467 

37 
621 
461 
733 
4.35 
135 
657 
624 
418 
452 
271 

60 
762 
605 
666 
128 
568 
281 
182 
238 
161 
616 
231 
524 
815 
470 
572 
636 
192 
318 



xxxu 



CONTENTS. 



The State of the World had Men Lived at Ease, . 

The Sting of Death Hayne, . . . 

The Stomach of Man, H- B. Lyiton, . 

The Striving of Hope, H- H. Lallirop, 

The Sunflower Greenwell, . . 



Tliomaon 596 

. 257 

. 751 

. 837 

. 823 



The Sunrise never Failed us vet, Thaxter, 587 

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, . ■ Scott, 480 

The Superfluous Man Saxe, 775 

The Sweet Neglect Jonson, 310 

The Teacher, Crabhe, 164 

The Tears of Heaven Trinii/son, 585 

The Tempest J'lumison, 591 

The Terror of Death AVr/Av 310 

The Test Stedman, 535 

The Three Fishers, Knuish'n, 321 

The Three Lights, Whitney 637 

The Three Warnings Titrate 784 

The Tides, Lonf/fellow, .... 343 

The Tiger • lilahe, 39 

The Tiger Tmirli, . . 

The Tongue Con-pcr, 

The Touchstone, Altinglinw, 

The True Measure of Life, P.J- Baili-y, 

The Tryst, Stedman, . 

The Two Angels, Lon;ifetlnv, 

The Two Birds F. liatat, . 

The Two Brides, Stoddard, . 

The Twofold Power of All Things, li. Soutliey, 

The Two Great Cities, Haejeman, 



605 

714 

18 

26 

536 

344 

32 

540 

516 

247 

The Two Highwaymen, Bliint, .' 802 

The Two Kisses H. Browniny, ... 70 

The Two Ladders, TUton, 602 

The Two Streams, Holmes, 279 

The Type of Struggling Humanity, Holland, 275 

The Tyranny of Mood, Preston, 436 

The Uncertain Man Coirper 714 

The Undiscovered Country, Stedman 536 

The Unexpressed, Story, 543 

The Unfulfilled E. IS. Lyttov, . ... 841 

The Universal Lot, Crabbe 169 

The Universal Prayer Pojye 433 

The University of Gottingen, Canniny, 708 

The Vacillating Purpose, Crabbe, 103 

The Vagabonds Troirhridyc, .... 786 

The Voiceless, IIoImcs 276 

The Voice of the Grass Pob<-rts 459 

The Voices of Angels, S. T. Coleridye, ... 135 

The Village Preacher, Goldsmifh, .... 235 

The Village Schoolmaster, Goldsmith 235 

The Violet, Scott, 481 

The Violet, Story 543 

The Way a Rumor is Spread, Uyrom, 704 

The Way, the Truth, and the Life, Parker, 406 

The White Flag, Winter 0.58 

The Will Symonds, 559 

The Winged Worshippers, Sj)7-ayiie 532 

The Winter's Evening Cowper, 158 

The AVise Man in Darkness, Prior 439 

The Wise Man in Light, . , Prior 439 

The Wit, Dryden 207 

The Woodland, Hayne, 256 

The Wood-turtle Fawcett, 221 

The Word of Bane and Blessing, Tupper, 620 

The World •. . . Very, 627 

The World, Quarles, 450 

The World a Grave. . • /?. Vouny i;84 

The World is too much with us, Wordsworth, .... 075 

The World's AVanderers Shellei/ 492 

The Worth of Fame nailiic 26 



CONTENTS. 



The Worth of Hours Lord Hour/hton, ... 287 

Thev are all gone Vaiu/linn, 521 

They come ! the Merry Summer Months, Mother irelt, .... 394 

The'Vellowot the iliser, F. Smith, 508 

The Young Poet's Visit to the Hall Crabbv, 719 

The Zeal of Persecution Thoimon, 595 

This Name of Mine, G. Houghton 285 

Thou art, O God, Moon 387 

Tliose Evening Bells, Moore, 387 

Thou-iht, Cranch 175 

Thouliast Sworn by thy God, Cunningham,. ... 179 

Thou KnoMcst. . ." J. C. li. Dorr, ... 195 

Three Epitaiihs, • Hernck, 266 

Three Friends of Mine, Lonf/fcllow, .... 344 

Three Kisses, E. B. Jirowning, . . 64 

Three Kisses of Farewell Saxe Holm 276 

Three Sonnets on Prayer, Trench 602 

Through Love to Light, Gilder, 233 

. 295 

. 492 



Thv Art be Nature, Wordsworth. 

Tibbie Inglis, ^fnri/ Hoicitt. 



Time, 



Shelle 



Time, its Use and Misuse, E.ioung, 678 

To a Bavarian Girl, . . • B. Taylor, 569 

To a Child Embracing his Mother jffood 280 

To a Citv Pigeon, Willi.i, 6.50 

To a Dead Woman, Bunner 808 

To a Distant Friend, Wordsworth, .... 672 

To a Friend afraid of Critics, Markaij 754 

To a Friend in Heaven Tenni/son, 576 

To a :Mountain Daisy, Burns 83 

To an Early Primrose, H. K. White, .... 634 

To an Infant Sleeping, Holland 274 

To any Poet T. B. Aldrich, ... 12 

To a Sea-Bird Bret Harte 252 



To a Skylark, Shelleg,. . 

To a Skylark, Wordsworth, 

To a Violin Tha.rter, . 

To a Virtuous Young Lady, MUton, . . 

To a Y^oung Ladv Wordsworth, 

To a Young Lady Camphell, . 

To Be, or Not to Be Shakesjjeare, 

To Celia, Jonson, . . 

To Critics Crabhe, 168 

■To-day, Carlyle 118 

-To-day S. M. B. Piatt. ... 419 



490 
673 
588 
380 
671 
708 
484 
509 



Prescott, 434 

Boker 46 

E. B. Browning, . . 62 

Barlow, 29 

Willis 653 



'•To-day 

To England. . . 
To Flush, my Do 
To Freedom^ . . 
To Giulia Grisi, 

To his Books, Vavghnn, 

To his Emiity Purse Chaiirer, 

To his Mother's Spindle, Bloom,field 

To Keep a True Lent, Hernck, 

To Lueasta, on Going beyond the Seas, Lovelace, 

To Lueasta, on Going to the Wars Lovelace, 

To Man, Con-per, . 

To Mary, Wolfe, 664 

To Mary in Heaven, Burns 82 

To INlisfortune -W^. A'- fVln'e, ■ 

To :\roseow E. n. I'roctor, 

To Murmurers, Tiipper, . . . 

To my Candle Wolcot, . . . 

To my Cigar Sprague, . . 

To my Infant Son, Hood, . . . 

To my Love, Saxe, . . . 

To my Jlother Poe 

To my Son, G- P- Lathrop, 

To my Soul, Shaksjjeare, . 



626 
812 
42 
267 
346 
346 
162 



636 
449 
619 
664 
533 
734 
476 
425 
334 
489 



CONTENTS. 



To Night B. White, 634 

Too Late A. A. Procter, ... 441 

Too Late Craik, 172 

Too Late, Stedman, 537 

Too Near, Marston, s43 

To One who would Make a Confession, Blunt, 802 

Too Old for Kisses Stoddard, 780 

To Perilla, Herrick, 265 

To Koiise, the Artist, Appleton 13 

To Sappho, A. Fields, ..... 223 

To Seneca Lake Percival, 413 

To Sleep, Wordsu-orth 672 

To the Cuckoo, Wordsworth, .... 676 

To the Fire, R- Southey, .... 522 

To the Mocking Bird, B. H. Wilde, .... 649 

To the Rainbow, CampheU, 113 

To Time, Bowles, 51 

To Triflers Buchaiian, .... 807 

To Victoria, C. F. Bates, .... 31 

To William Lloyd Garrison, Ap])leton, 19 

Trailing Arbutus, B. T. Cooke, .... 152 

Treasure in Heaven, Saxe, 476 

Tribute to Victoria Campbell, . . „ . . 115 

Triumph, Simnis 504 

Tropical Weather, Sargent, 471 

Trouble to Lend, Kimball, ... 

True Death, Hood, .... 

True Nobility, Pope 

True Union, Rogers, .... 

Trvith to Nature, Pope, .... 

Turn to the Helper, Miller, .... 

Twilight, Wordsworth, . . 

Twilight at Sea, Welbij, .... 

Two Aprils, Gallagher, . . . 

Two Love Quatrains Gilder, .... 

Two Maidens Webster, . . . 

Two Patrons, J. J. Piatt, . . 

Tying her Bonnet under her Chin, Perry 



319 
284 
431 
462 
432 
373 
672 
850 
820 
232 
631 
418 
415 



u. 

Una and the Lion, F. Spenser, . . 

Uncrowned Kings, Aiken, .... 

Under the Leaves, Laighton, . . . 

Under the Tjindens, Landor, . . . 

Under the Portrait of John Milton Dryden, . . . 

Under the Sod, Tilton, .... 

Under the Violets, Holmes, . . . 

Undeveloped Genius, Wordsivorth, . . 

Unhappy Childhood, Simms, .... 

Union of Faith and Reason Necessary, Crabbe, .... 

Universal Salvation ./.(?. Whittier, . 

Unknown Greatness, Sir H. Taylor, . 

Unrequiting F. Smith 509 

Unseen Spirits, Willis 

Unspoken Words, O'Beilh/, . . . 

Unsung T. B. Aldrich, . 

Until Death Allen, .... 

Unwedded, Larcom, . . . 

Up-hill, C. G. Bossetti, . 

Urvasi, Bosttvick, . . . 



526 
797 
324 
743 
204 
599 
278 
668 
503 
169 
645 
,569 



653 
401 
10 
16 
330 
464 
49 



V. 



Valborg Watching Axel's Departure, 
Verses on his Own Death 



G. Houghton, 

Swift, . . . 



284 
781 



CONTENTS. 



Victorj' from God, Spenser, 528 

Villanelle, Gosse, 821 

Virtue, Herbert, 265 

Virtue, The Measure of Years, E. Young 683 

Virtue, the sole Unfailing Happiness, Pope, 431 



579 
571 
194 
193 
198 



w. 

Waiting, Clemmer, 131 

Waiting for the Ship, Brownell 60 

Wandering Willie, Scott, 480 

Watchwords, Coxe 816 

Waterloo, Byron 106 

Weak Consolation, Trench, 603 

Weal and Woe, Gilder, 231 

We are Seven, Wordsworth 673 

Weariness, Longfellow 342 

We Have Been Friends Together, Norton, 398 

Weighing the Baby, Beers, 36 

We Sat by the Cheerless Fireside, Stoddard, 542 

Westminster Bridge, Wordsworth, .... 675 

Wetmore Cottage, Nahant, Story 543 

What Ails this Heart o' INIine, Blamire 40 

What Is the Little One Thinking about ? Holland 272 

What 1 would Be, Tennyson, ... 

What Makes a Hero? Sir H. Taylor, . 

What Need ? J. C. Ji. Dorr, . 

What She Thought J. C. R. Dorr, . 

Wliat We Toil For, TJrummond, . . 

What will it Matter? Holland, 275 

What would I Save Thee from ? Gilder, 232 

When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay, Byron, 92 

When Joys are Keenest, Sir H. Taylor, ... 571 

When the Drum of Sickness Beats, Stoddard, 541 

Where is Thy Favored Haunt ? Kehle, 314 

Where the Roses Grew, Allen 15 

Whilst Thee I Seek, Williams, 650 

White Poppies Barr 798 

White Underneath, R. S. Palfrey, ... 405 

Whittling, Pierpont, 764 

Why, Cranch, 176 

Why'don't the Men Propose ? T. H. Bayly, .... 688 

Why should we Faint and Fear to Live Alone? . . . Keble 315 

Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? Suckling, 550 

Why thus Longing ? Sewall, 483 

Widowed Boyle, 805 

Widow Machree Lover 747 

Widow Malone, Lever, 745 

Wife to Husband, C. G. Rossettt, ... 466 

Wind and Sea B. Taylor, 565 

Windless Rain, Hayne, 2o7 

Wintry Weather, />". Gray, 822 

Wisdom, E. Young, 684 

Wisdom's Prayer, Johnson, 308 

Wishes for Obscuritv, Crowne, 179 

Wishes of Youth, ." Blanchard, .... 801 

Wit, Pope, 432 

Withered Roses, Winter, 660 

Without and Within, Loivell, 751 

Woodbines in October, C. F. Bates, .... 31 

Woodman, Spare that Tree, Morris, 388 

Words for Parting Clement, 129 

Work and Worship W. A. Butler,. . . . St 

Worship, Richardson 458 

Worth and Cost Holland 273 

Wouldn't you Like to Know, Snxe, 4i.5 

Would Wisdom for Herself be Wooed, Patmore, 411 



CONTENTS. 



Wounds Fawcett, . 

Wrecked in the Tempest, Falconer, . 

Written at an Inn at Henlej', Shenstone, . 

Written on Sunday Morning, JR. Southeij, 



220 
217 
498 
519 



Yawcob Strauss, Adams 685 

Ye Mariners of England, Campbell, 110 

Yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs, Lover, 318 

Young Sophocles taking the Prize A. Fields, 223 

Youth and Age^ S. T. Coleridge, . . 140 

Youth's Agitations, M. Arnold, .... 24 



mDEX OF AUTHOKS AKD TITLES. 



PAGE 

2 
2 

1 



ABBEY, HENRY. 

b. Kondout. N Y., July 11, 1842. 
Faciebat ....... 

May in Kingston .... 

The Caliph's Magnanimity 

ADAINIS, CHARLES FOLLEN, 
b. Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842. 

Fritz and I , . . 686 

Pat's Criticism 685 

Yawcob Strauss 685 

ADAIMS, SARAH FLOWER, 
b. Cambridfre, Enp;., Feb. 22, 1895. 
d. London, Aug. 14, 1840. 

Nearer, My God, to Thee ... 3 

ADDISON, JOSEPH. 

b. Milston, Wiltshire, Eng., May 1, 1672. 

d. London, Eng., June 17, I7ia. 

Apostrophe to Liberty ^ . . . 3 
Cato's Soliloquy 4 



AIKEN, BERKELEY. 

d. 18G4. 

Uncrowned Kings 797 

AKENSIDE, :NrARK. 

b. Newcastle-upon-Tvne, Nov. 9, 1721. 
d. June 27, 1770. 

Aspirations after the Infinite 
(Pleasures of the Imagination) 

Mental Beauty (P/easi«rs of the 
Imagination^ 7 

On a Sermon against Glory . . 4 

Riches of a Man of Taste {Pleas- 
ures of the Imagination) . . 6 

The Development of Poetic 
Creation (Pleasures of the 
Imagination) 5 

AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA. 

h. Feb. 21„ 1816. 

d. Providence, R. I., Feb. 21, 1874. 

Nothing but Leaves 8 



ALDRICH, JAMES. 



b. Orange Co., N. Y., July 10. 1810. 
d. New York, Oct., 18o6. " 



A Death-bed 



ALDRICH, THOilAS BAILEY, 
b. Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. 11, 18.36. 

After the Rain 

An Untimely Thought . . 



Destiny JjJ 

Maple Leaves 1- 

Masks 12 

Nameless Pain ly 

Pursuit and Possession .... 11 

Rencontre H 

Sleep 11 

The Ballad of Baby Bell ... 8 

The Faded Violet H 

The Rose Jp 

To any Poet ......•• 12 

Unsung 10 

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 

b. about 1830, England. 

The Burial of Moses .... 12 

ALFORD, HENRY, 
b. London, 1810. d. 1871. 

The Aged Oak at Oakley. . 



13 



ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. 

b. Strong, i\Ie., Oct. 9, 18.32. 

Lives Greenville, N. J. 

Endurance . 14 

Every Day H 

j^j^g^ 15 

Rock me to Sleep 15 

Until Death 16 

Where the Roses Grew .... 15 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM, 
b. Ballyshannon, Ireland, 1828. 
Lives in London. 

Autumnal Sonnet 18 

Lovely Mary Donnelly .... 686 
The Touchstone 18 

ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. 

b. in Waccamaco, S. C.,.Nov^5. 1779. 



d. Cambridge, Mass., July 9, 1873. 



19 



Boyhood 

ANNAN, ANNIE R. 

b. Mendon, N. Y., Sept. 23, 1847. 

Recompense 797 

ANONYMOUS. 

The Eggs and the Horses . . . 
Dr. DroUhead's Cure .... 
APPLETON, THOMAS GOLD, 
b. Boston, March 3, 1812. 

To Rouse, the Artist .... 
To William Lloyd Garrison, after 
the war 1^ 



793 
796 



19 



XXXVlll 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



AENOLD, EDWIN. 




BATES, CHARLOTTE FISKE. 




b. London, Eng., JS.32. 




b. New York, Nov. 30, 1838. 




After Death in Arabia : . . . 


21 






Florence Nightingale .... 


22 


Consecration 


31 


She and He 


20 


Make thine Angel Glad . . . 


31 






The Old Year and the New . . 


31 


ARNOLD, GEORGE. 




To Victoria 


31 


b. New York, June 24, \SM. 

d. Strawberry Farms, N. J., Nov. 9, 1865. 




Woodbines in October .... 


31 








Cui Bono 


23 
23 


BATES, FLETCHER, 
b. New York, Nov. 19, 1831. 




In the Dark 




ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 




The Clergyman and the Peddler 


687 


b. Latcham, Eng., Dec. 24, 1S22. 




The Dead Bee 


32 






The Two Birds 


32 


Austerity of Poetry 


25 






Early Death and Fame .... 


25 


BATES, KATHERINE LEE. 




East London 


24 


b. Falmouth, Mass., Aug. 12, 1859. 




Goethe (Mi'tnorial verses) . . . 


25 






Immortality 


24 


The Organist 


32 


Self-dei;enilence 


25 




Youth's Agitations 


24 


BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. 




AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 




b. Bath, England, 1797. d. 1839. 




b. Scotland, 1570. d. 1G38. 

Fair and Unworthy 


798 


The first Gray Hair 

Why don't the Men Propose . . 


33 
688 






BEATTIE, JAMES. 




BAILEY, PHILIP JAxMES, 




b. Kincardineshire, Scotland, Oct. 20, 1735. 




b. Nottingham, Eng., 1816. 




d. Aug. 18, 1803. 




The True Measure of Life . . 


26 


Beauties of Morning {The Min- 
strel) 

Death and Resui-rection {The 


34 


BAILLIE, JOANNA. 




b. Lanarksliire, Scotland, in 1702 




Minstrel) 


35 


d. at Hampstead, near London, Feb. 23. 1851. 




The Ascent to Fame ( The Min- 




My Love is on her Way . . . 


27 


strel) , . . . 


34 


Snatches of Mirth in a Dark Life 


27 


The Charms of Nature (The 




The Kitten 


26 


Minstrel) 


34 


The Worth of Fame 


26 


BEERS, ETHELINDA ELLIOTT. 




BALLANTINE, JAMES. 




b. 1827. d. 1879. 




b. Edinbur'^h Scotland 1808. d. 183.3. 




The Picket Guard 


.35 


Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 




Weighing the Baby 


36 


drap o' dew 


28 


BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. 




BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA. 




b. Leicestershire, 1586. d. March 9, 1616. 




b. Leicestershire, Eng., June 20, 1743. 
d. near London, March 9, 1825. 

Life 




On the Tombs in Westminster 
Abbey 


37 


28 


BENJAMIN PARK. 




The Death of the Virtuous . . 
The Sabbath of the Soul . . . 


28 
798 


b. Demerara, Aug. 14, 1809 
d. New York, Sept. 12, 1864. 








Press on 


779 


BARKER, DAVID. 






b. Exeter, Me., 181G. d. 1874. 




BENNETT, WILLIAIM COX. 




The Covered Bridge 


29 


b. Greenwich, Eng., 1820. Lives London. 




BARLOW, JOEL. 




Summer Rain 

The Seasons 


38 
37 


b. Reading, Conn., March 24, 175.5. 








d. Zarnowickc, Poland, Dec. 22, 1812. 




BENSEL, ANNIE BERRY. 




To Freedom 


29 


b. New York City, Aug. 2, 1855. 








The Lady of the Castle . . . 


800 


BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 








b. Fifeshire, Scotland, Dec. 8, 1750. 




BENSEL, JAMES BERRY. 




d. May 8, 1825. 




b. New York City, Sept. 30, 1859. 




Auld Robin Gray 


30 


Ill Arjibiti 


38 


BARR, MARY A. 


BLACKIE, JOHN STUART. 




b. Glasgow, Scotland. 




b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1809. 




White Poppies 


798 


The Hope of the Heterodox . . 


800 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



BLAKE, WILLI AIM. 

b. London, Nov. 28, 17.37. 
The Tiger . . . 



BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. 

b. Cumberland, Eng., \~U. d. 1794. 
What ails this Heart o' Mine 

BLANCHAKD, LAMAN. 

b. Great Yarmoutli Eug , May 15, 180.3. 
d. Feb. 15, 1845. 



40 



Hidden Joys 

The Eloquent Pastor Dead 
Wishes of Youth .... 



BLOOMFIELD. ROBERT. 



BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. 

d. Aug. 12, 182S. b. Northamptonshire, Sept. 24, 1762. 

d. April 7, 18.5U. 

The Greenwood .51 

To Time 51 

BOYLE, A. B. 

Widowed 805 

BRACKETT, ANNA C. 

b. Boston, 1836. 
gQj j In Gartield's Danger 52 

802 I BRADDOCK, E:\IILY A. 
^Ol d. 1879. 

An Unthrift 805 



b. Honjngton, Enj 
d. Aug. I'J, 1823. 



;., Dec. 3, 1706. 



A .Spring Day (The Farmer's 

£0,1/) 

A Tempest (The Farmer's Boy) . 

Gleaner's Song 

Harvesting ( Tlie Farmer's Boy) 
Love of the Country .... 
To his Mother's Spindle . . . 

BLUNT, WILFRED (?) (Proteus). 

A Day in Sussex 

Cold Comfort 

Laughter and Death 

The Two Highwaymen .... 
To One who would make a Con- 
fession . - 



BOKER, GEORGE HENRY, 
b. Philadelphia, 1824. 

Awaking of the Poetical Fa- 
culty 

Dirge for a Soldier 

In Autumn (Book of the Dead). 

Love Sonnets 

My Answer (BooJc of iJie Dead) . 
Nearness ( The Boolcof the Dead) 
Ode to a Mountain Oak . . . 
To England 

BOLTON, SARAH K. 

Entered into Rest 



BONAR, HORATIUS. 

b. Edinburgh, Scotland, 1808. 
A Little While . . . 
The Inner Calm . . 



803 
803 
803 



805 



48 



BOSTWICK, HELEN LOUISE BARRON, 
b. Charlcstown, N. II., 1826. 

Urvasi 49 

BOTTA, ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH. 

b. Bennington, Vt, 1820. 

Love 50 

The Lesson of the Bee .... 50 

BOUBDILLON, FRANCIS W. 
b. Woolbedding, Eng., 1852. 

Light 50 

Love's Reward 50 

The Difference 51 



BRADLEY, MARY E. 

b. Easton, JIaryland, Nov 29, 1835. 
Beyond Recall .... 



BRAINARD, JOHN G C 

b. New London, Conn , Oct. 21, 1796 
d. New London, Conn , Sept 26, 1828 

Epithalamium 



BRANCH, MARY BOLLES. 

b. Brooklyn, N. Y , 1841. 

The Petrified Fern . . 



.53 



BRINE, MARY D. 

Somebody's jNIother 806 

BRONTE;, ANNE. 



b. Yorkshire, Eng , 1820. d May, 1849. 
If this be All 



.53 



BRONTE, CHARLOTTE. 

b. Thornton, Yorkshire, Eng , April 21, 
1816. d. March 31, 1855. 

Life wnM be Gone ere I Have 
Lived 54 

BR0NT:&, EMILY. 

b. Yorkshire, Eng., 1818. d. Dec , 1848. 

Last Lines 54 

Remembrance .54 



BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN. 

b. Jledford, Mass., 1795. 
d. Cuba, Nov. 11,1845. 

Song of Egla (From Zophiel) 
The Marriage of Despair . . 



BROWN, FRANCES. 

b. Ireland, June 16, 1818. d 186i 

Losses 56 

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 

b. Providence, R. I., Feb 6, 1820. 
d. Oct 30, 1872 

All Together 57 

. . 58 

. . 59 

. . 59 

. . 48 

. . 58 



Alone 

At Sea 

Long Ago 

IMidnight — A Lament 
The Adieu 



The Return of Kane 57 



xl 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



BROWNELL, C. D. W. 

Waiting for the Ship .... 60 

BROT\Ts^ING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 

b. London. Eng., 1800. 
d. Florence, June ai, 1801. 

A Character {From Aurora 

Lekih) 68 

A Portrait 6u 

Assurance {Sonnets from the Por- 
tuguese) 64 

Consolation M?»-o?-a Leigh) . . 63 
Critics (Aurora Leigh) .... 689 
Goodness (Aurora Leigh) . . . C88 
Humanity (Aurora Leigh) . . 689 
In €he Struggle (Aurora Leiqh) . 67 
Kindness First Known in a Hos- 
pital {Aurora Leigh) . . . . 66 

Little jNlattie 61 

Only a Curl 65 

Perfect Love (Sonnets from the 

Portuguese) ....... 64 

Picture of Marian Erie (Aurora 

Leigh) 67 

Selfislmess of Introspection 

(Aurora Leigh) 66 

The Cry of the Human ... 65 
The One Universal Sympathy 

(Atirora Leigh) 67 

The Sleep . '. 60 

Three Kisses (Sonnets from the 

Portuguese) 64 

To Flush, my Dog 62 

BROWNING, ROBERT. 

b. Cambcrwell, Eng., 1812. 

Dreams (Tlie Ping and the Book) 71 

Evelyn Hope 69 

How they brought the good 

News from Ghent to Ai.x . . 70 

In a Year 68 

Prospice 68 

The Lack of Children (The Ping 

and the liool:\ 71 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin . . 690 

The Two Kisses (In a Gondola) . 70 



BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 

b. Cumniinston, Mass., Nov. 3, 1794. 
d. New York, .June 12, 1878. 

An Evening Revery (From an 

unfinished Poem) 

Blessed are they that Mourn . 

June 

Life 

Thanatopsis 

The Con(iueror's Grave . . , 

The Crowded Street 

The Eveninu "Wind 

The Frin^fd (ieiitian .... 

The Future Life 

The Past 



BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 

b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1841. 

Dying 807 

To Triflers (Faces on the Wall) . 807 



BUNNER, H. C. 

A Woman's Way . 
Irwin Russell . . 
Longfellow . . . 
To a Dead Woman 

BURBIDGE, THOMAS. 

b. England, 1817. 

At Divine Disposal 
Eventide 



808 
808 
807 
808 



808 
809 



BURLEIGH, WILLIAM HENRY. 

b. Woodstock. Conn.. Feb. 2, 1S12. 
d. Brooklyn, N. Y., Jlarcli 18, 1871. 

Rain 

The Harvest Call 



BURNS, ROBERT. 

b. near A.vr, Scotland, Jan. S.l, 17."fl. 
d. Dumfries, Scotland, July 21, 17'J6. 

Farewell to Nancy . . . 
For a' that and a' that . . 
From the " Lines to a Louse 
God the only just Judge (Fr 

To the Unco Guid) . . 
Hijihland ISIary . . . 
Jolm Anderson, my Jo . 
]SIan was Jlade to Mourn 
Stanzas in Prospect of Death 
Tam O' Shanter . . . 
To a Mountain Daisy 
To Mary in Heaven . . 

BUSHNELL, LOUISA. 



84 

82 

698 

85 
85 
84 
85 
83 
695 
83 
82 



Delay 



BUTLER, SAMUEL. 

b. Strenehani, Worcestershire, Eng., 1G12. 
d. Sept. 25, 1(180. 

Love 

The Biblical Knowledge of Hu- 
dibras (//udibros) 

The Knighfs Steed (Iludihras) . 

The Learning of Hudibras (Hu- 
dihras) 

The Pleasure of being Cheated 
(Hudibras) 

BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. 

b. Albany, N. Y., 1S25. 

From " Nothing to Wear " . . 701 
The Busts of Goethe and Schil- 
ler • . . . . 88 

Work and Worship 87 

BUTTS, MARY F. 
b. Ilopkinlon, R. I., 1837. 

Other Mothers 89 

BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH. 
b. Warren, R. I., Dec. 22, 18.19. 

The Fountain of Youth ... 89 

BY'ROM, JOHN. 

b. near Manchester, Eng., 1G91. 
d. Sept. 28, 17G.'!. 

Careless Content 705 

Spectacles or Helps to Read . 706 
The Way a Rumor is Spread . 704 



699 
701 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



xli 



BYRON, LORD. 

b. London, Jan. 22. 178-S. 

d. Missolonghi, Greece, April 19, 1824. 

Apostrophe to Ada, the Poet's 

Daughter (Chiifle Harold) . . 105 
Apostn iphe to the Ocean (CliiUle 

Harohl) 100 

Bvron's Remarkable Prophecy 

\ChiUh' Harold) 103 

Cahn and Tempest at Night on 

Lake Lenian (Childe Harold) . 101 

Critics (English Jiards) . . . 706 

Epistle to Augusta 9~> 

Fare Thee Well 9ii 

Genius { Prop lie CI/ of Dante) . . 99 

Greece (ChUde Harold). ... 105 

Inscription 94 

LiOve (7'lie Giaou)-) 97 

Maid of Athens 94 

On Completing my Thirty-sixth 

Year (His last verses) .... 107 
One Presence Wanting {Childe 

Harold) 104 

She Walks in Beauty .... 93 

Sleep (The Dream) 97 

Sonnet on Chillon 93 

Sun of the Sleepless 92 

The First Day of Death (The 

Giaour) 97 

The Isles of Greece (Don Juan) . 98 
The Misery of Excess {Childe 

Harold) 100 

Vratfi-hio (Cliilde Harold) . . . 106 
When Ciililncss Wraps this Suf- 
fering Clay 92 

CAMPBELL, TH0:MAS. 

b. Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777. 
d. Boulogne, France, June Ij, 1844. 

Against Skeptical Philosophy 

(Pleasures of Hope) .... 117 
Apostrophe to Hope (Pleasures 

of Hope) 117 

Battle of the Baltic 114 

Domestic Happiness (Pleasures 

of Hope) 116 

Exile of Erin 112 

Field Flowers Ill 

Hallowed Ground ...... 108 

Hohenlinden 112 

Hope in Adversity (Pleasures of 

Hope) . . . . ■ '.116 

How Delicious is the Winning . 110 

Lord Ullin's Daughter .... Ill 

Song 115 

Song 707 

The Distant in Nature and Ex- 
perience (Pleasures of Hope) . 115 
The Last Man . ..'.... 109 
The River of Life ...... 114 

To a Young Lady 708 

To the Rainbow 113 

Tribute to Victoria 115 

Ye Mariners of England . . , 110 

CANNING, GEORGE. 

b. I.nndon, April 11,1770. 
d. Cliiswick, Aug. .S, 1827. 

The University of Gottingen . 708 



CAREW, THOMAS. 

b. Devonshire, Eng., loS3. d. 1639. 

Ask Me no More US 

Disdain Returned 118 

CARLETON, WILL. 

b. Hudson, Michigan, Oct. 21, 1845. 

The New Year's Baby (From 
Farm Ballads) 709 

CARLYLE, THOMAS. 

b. Ecclefechan. Dumfriesshire, Scotland, 
Dec. 4, 1795 d. Chelsea, London, 1881. 

Cui Bono? 119 

To-day 118 

CARY, ALICE. 

b. near Cincinnati, Oliio, April 26, 1820. 
d. New York, Feb. 12, 1871. 

A Dream 121 

Counsel 121 

Life 119 

Life's Mystery 122 

No Ring 122 

Spent and Misspent 121 

The Ferry of Gallaway ... 120 

CARY, PHCEBE. 

b. near Cincinnati, Ohio. Sept. 4, 1834. 
d. Newport, R. L, July S], 1871. 

Answered 127 

Archie 125 

Conclusions ........ 126 

Dead Love 123 

Nearer Home 123 

Our Homestead 127 

The Lady Jaqueliue 124 

CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 

b. Bristol, Eng., Nov. 2(1, 17.v2. 
d. London, Aug. 25, 1770. 

On Resignation 810 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 

b. London, l.'SS ? d. Oct. 25, 1400. 

Good Counsel 811 

The Parson 810 

To his Empty Purse 812 

CHENEY, JOHN VANCE. 

May 812 

CLARK, LUELLA. 

b. America. 

If You Love Me 128 

CLARK, SARAH D. 

The Soldanella 128 

CLEM]VrER, MARY ANN. 
b. rtica, N. Y.,18.'!9. 

Nantasket 130 

Wailing 131 

Words for Parting 129 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 

b. Liverpool, Jan. 1, 1819. 
d. Florence, Nov. 13, 18G1. 

Becalmed at Eve 131 

Natura Naturans 1.32 

No More 131 



xlii 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



COLEllIDGE, HARTLEV. 

b. near Bristol, Eng., Sept. 19. I'OB. 
d. Ambleside, Eng , Jan. lU, 18411. 

Address to Certain Gold-flslies . 

No Life Vaiu 

November 

Song 

The Flight of Youth .... 

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 

b. Devonshire, Eng., Oct. 21, llTi. 
d. London, July i5, 1834. 

Bell and Brook ( Three Graves) . 

Broken Friendships ( Christabel) 

Complaint and Reproof . . . 

Epigram 

From an Ode to the Rain . . . 

From Dejection 

From Lines Composed in a Con- 
cert-room 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Val- 
ley of Chamouni 

Lines to a Comic Author . . . 

Love 

Love, Hope and Patience in 
Education 

Names 

Penance of the Ancient IViariner 
(Ancient Mariner) 

The Ancient Mariner Refreshed 
by Sleep (Ancient Mariner) . 

The Ship Becalmed (Ancient 
Manner 

The Voices of the Angels . . 

Youth and Age • 

COLLIER, THOMAS STEPHENS, 
b. New York, 1842. 

An October Picture 

Complete 

Off Labrador 



1.34 
i:U 
133 
134 
133 



COLLINS, MORTIMER. 

b. Plymouth, Eng., 1827. d. 1876 
In view of Death . . . 
Last ^'erses 



COLLINS, WILLIAM. 

b Chicliestor, Eng., Dec. 25, 1720. 
d. Chichester, Eng., 1750 

Ode on the Death of Thomson . 

Ode to Evening 

Ode to Simplicity 

Ode to the Brave 

On True antl False Taste in 

Music 

The Passions 



143 
143 
142 



144 
144 



COOK, CLARENCE CHATHAM. 

b. Dorchester, Mass., Sept. 8, 1828. 
On one who Died in May . . 

COOK, ELIZA. 

b. London, Eng., 1817. 

After a Mother's Death . . 
Ganging to and Ganging frae 
My Old Straw Hat .... 
Song of tlie Hempseed . . . 
Song of fhe Ugly Maiden . . 



1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
14!J 
151 



COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON. 

b. Martinsburg, Va., Oct. 2(i, 1816. 
d. Jan. 20, 1850. 

Florence Vane 151 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY. 

b. Hartford, Conn., Feb. 17, 1827. 

The Iconoclast 152 

Then 153 

Trailing Arbutus -152 

COOLBRITH, INA D. 

In Blossom Time 153 

The Mother's Grief 154 

COOLIDGE, SUSAN (Sarah Woolsey) 
b. Cleveland, Ohio. 

Influence 814 

Miracle 814 

One Lesser Joy 813 

CORNWELL, HENRY S. 
b. Charlestown, N. 11., ISPA. 

The Dragon-fly 815 

The Spider 815 

COTTON, CHARLES. 

b. Staffordshire, Eng., 16.30. d. 16S7. 

Contentation 154 

In the Quiet of Nature ( From 
Retirement) 154 

COWLEY, ABRAHAM!. 

b. London, 1618. d. Chertsey, July 28, 1G67. 
Distance no Barrier to the Soul 

(Friendship in Absence) . . . 1.56 

Of Myself 155 

On the Shortness cf Life . . . 156 
Reason an aid to Revelation 

(Jieason) • . . 156 

COWPER, WILLIAM. 

b. Hertfordshire, Eng.. Nov. 26, 1731. 
d. Norfolk, Eng., April 2.i, 1800. 

A Faithful Picture of Ordinary 

Society {Con rersation) . . . 715 

Alexander Selkirk 161 

Apostrophe to Popular Applause 

(The 'J ask) 1.57 

Descanting ou Illness (Convcrsa- 

tion) 715 

John Gilpin 711 

Light Shining Out of Darkness. 157 

Mercy to Animals (r/(e 7'«s/0 . 160 

Pairing-time Anticipated . . . 710 

The Captious (Conrersatwn) . . 716 
The Freedom of the Good ( The 

Task) 158 

The Emphatic Talker ( Conversa- 
tion) 715 

The Poplar Field 157 

The Post-boy ( The Task) ... 161 
The Soul's Progress Checked 

(Retirement) 161 

The Tongue (Co7iversat ion) . . 714 
The Uncertain Man (Conveisa- 

tion) 614 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



xliii 



The Wiuter's Evening (The 

Task) 158 

To Mary . ' 162 

COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND. 

b. Mendham, N. ' , May 10, 1818. 

Watchwords S16 

CKABBE, GEORGE. 

b. Aldboroush, Eng., Dec. 24, 1734. 
d. Feb. S, 1832. 

Advice to one of Simple Life 
(The Patron) ....... 718 

Against Rash Opiuious (Gentle- 
man Farmer) 165 

Apostrophe to the Whimsical 

(The Villaf/e) 165 

Books ( The Library) 170 

Controversialists ( The Library) . 168 
External Impressions Depend- 
ent on the Soul's Moods (Lov- 
er's Journey) 107 

Folly of Litigation (Gentleman 

Farmer) 164 

Friendship in Age and Sorrow 

(Partintj Nozir) 168 

Learning" is Labor (Schools) . . 164 

Life (Parting Hour) 168 

Man's Dislike to be Led (Dumb 

Orators 165 

Philosophy (Library) .... 109 
Quacks (From Physic) .... 718 
Reporters (Fj-ojw the JS'^ewspaper) 717 
Sleep the Detractor of Beauty 

(Edward Shore) 163 

Sly Lawyers (From. Latv) . . . 718 
The Awful ^'acancy ( The Parish 

Register) 165 

The Condemned, His Dream and 

its Awakening (Prisons) . . 166 
The Perils of Genius (Edward 

Shore) 163 

The Readers of Dailies (From 

the Newspaper) 717 

The Teacher (Schools) .... 164 
The Religious Journal (i''«)Hi the 

A'ewspoper) 717 

The Universal Lot ( The Library ) 169 
The Vacillating Piu-pose (E'd- 

ivard Sftore) 163 

The Young Poet's Visit to the 

KnU (The Patron) . . ■ . 719 
To Critics (The Library) ... 168 
Union of Faith and Reason Ne- 
cessary (7'/ie i,J6;-ar(/) . . . 169 

CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 
b. Stoke-upon-Trent, Eng., 1826. 

Green Things Growing .... 170 

My Little Boy that Died . . . i72 

Now and Afterwards .... 170 

Philip Mv King 171 

Plighted" 171 

Resigning 172 

Too Late 172 

CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. 

b. Alexandria, Va., March 8, 1813. 

A Thrush in a Gilded Cage . . 173 



Compensation 174 

I in Thee, and Thuu in Me . . 176 

Memorial Hall 174 

Shelling Peas 719 

Soft, Brown, Smiling Eyes . . 176 

The Dispute of the Seven Days 721 

Thought 175 

Why? 176 

CKASHAW, RICHARD. 

b. Cambridgesliire, Eng. d. Loreto, Italy. 
Lines on a Prayer Book . . . 816 

CROLY, GEORGE. 

b. Dublin, Aug., !7.S0. d. Nov. 24, ISGO. 

Cupid Growing Careful .... 178 
Evening 178 

CROWNE, JOHN. 
b. Nova Scotia, d. 1703. 

Wishes for Obscurity .... 179 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 

b. Blackwood, Scotland, Dec. 7. 1785. 
d. London, Oct. 2a, 1»42. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 180 
She's Gane to Dwell in Heaven 180 
Thou Hast Sworn by thy God . 179 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM, 
b. Providence, R. I., Feb. 24, 1824. 

Egyptian Serenade 181 

Major and Minor 181 

Music in the Air 181 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 

b. Cambridge, Mass., Nov. 15, 1787. 

d. Feb. 2, 187y. 

The Husband and Wife's Grave 181 
The Soul 182 

DEMAREST, MARY LEE. 

My Aiu Couutree 183 

De verb, sir AUBREY. 

b. Limerick, Ireland, ]7Si ? d. 1846. 

Columbus 184 

Misspent Time ....... 184 

De VERE, sir AUBREY THOMAS, 
b. Limerick, Ireland, 1814. 

Affliction ......... 185 

All Tilings Sweet when Prized . 186 

Beatitude 186 

Bending Retweeu Me and the 

Taper - 185 

Happy Are They ...... 185 

Power of Poesy (Poetic Faculty) 184 

The Angels Kiss Her . 185 

The Mood of Exaltation 186 

De VERE, MARY AINGE. 

A Love Song ....... 817 

DICKENS, CHARLES, 

b. Portsmouth, Eng., Feb. 7, 1812. 
d. Gad's Hill, London, June 9, 1870, 

The Ivy Green ...... 187 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



DICKINSON, CHARLES M. 
b. I.owville, N. Y., 1842. 

The Children 187 

DICKINSON, MARY LUWE. 

If we had but a Day 188 

DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON, 
b. Peekham, Rye, Eng., 1824. 
d. Aug. 22, 1874. 

America 189 

Home, Wouuded 189 

DOBSON, AUSTIN. 
b. England, 1840. 

Farewell, Renown 190 

More Poets Yet 722 

The Child Musician 190 

The Prodigals 190 

DODGE, MARY MAPES. 
b. 1838. 

Death in Life 191 

Heart Oracles 192 

My Window Ivy 191 

The Child and the Sea .... 192 

The Human Tie 191 

The Stars 192 

DODGE, MARY B. 

Loss 817 

DONNE, JOHN. 

b. London, 157;!. d. March .31, 1G.31. 

The Farewell 818 

DORR, HENRY RIPLEY. 

b. Rutland, Vt., Oct. 27, 1858. 

Door and Window 818 

DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY, 
b. Charleston, S. C, IS2.3. 

At Dawn 196 

At the Last ........ 193 

Five -195 

Peradventure 194 

Thou Knowest 195 

What Need? 194 

What She Thought 193 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 

b. New York, Aug. 7, 179.5. d. Sept. 21, 1820. 

The American Flag . . . „ . 197 
DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 

b. Warwickshire, Eng., 1563. d. 1631. 

The Parting . , 198 

Di; uanroND, william. 

b. Ilawtliorndcn, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1585. 
d. Dec. 4, 1(;49. 

Despite All ...-.,... 198 
What We Toil For . . 198 

DRYDEN, JOHN. 

b. Northamptonshire, Eng., Aug. 9, 1631. 
d. May 1, 1700. 

A Character (.4&sa/om and Aclii- 
tophel) ......... 722 

Alexander's Feast ..... 199 



A Wife (Eleonord) 206 

Beautiful Death (Eleonoro) . . 206 

Charity (Eleonoro) ' 206 

From ''The Cock and the 

Fo.x " 722 

Judgment in Studying the Bible 

(He/igio Laid) 205 

The Avoidance of Religious Dis- 
putes (Reliqio Laid) .... 205 
The Bible (Itdigio Laid) ... 204 
The Light of Reason (Religio 

Laid) 204 

The Model Preacher (Charader 

of a Good Parson) 207 

The Wit {Absalom and Achito- 

phd) 207 

ITnder the Portrait of John 

Milton 204 

DUNBAR, WILLIAM. 

b. Salton, Scotland, about 1460. d. about 15.30. 
All Earthly Joy Returns in Pain 208 

DYER, SIR EDWARD. 

b. about 1540. 

]My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 

EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE. 

b. Fryehurg, Me., June 1, 1816. 
d. Burlington, Vt., 1861. 

A Snow Storm 



819 



208 

ELIOT, GEORGE (Mariax Evans Cross). 

b. Warwickshire, Eng., 1820. d. Dec. 2, 1880. 
O May I Join the Choir Invisible 209 

ELLIOT, JANE. 

b. 1727. d. 1805. 

The Flowers of the Forest . . 210 

ELLIOTT, EBENEZER. 

b. near Rotherham. Yorkshire, Eng., March 
17, 1781. d. Dec. 1, 1849. 

Not for Naught 212 

Poor Andrew 211 

The Poet's Prayer 212 

The Press . . " 211 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 

b. Boston, Mass , May 25, 1803. 
d. Concord, Mass., April 27, 18S2. 

Concord Fight 

Forbearance ...... 

0<le ......... 

The Humble-Bee ..... 

The I'roblem 

The Rhodora ...... 

FABER, FREDERIC W^LLIAM= 

b. Durham, Eng., June 28, 1814. 
d. Bronipton, Eng., Sept. 26, 1863. 

Harsh Judgments . . . . = 
I^ow Spirits . „ . - . . 

The Right ^Nlust Win : . . 

FALCONER, WILLIAM 

b. Edinburgh, Scotland, about IVSO 
d. (lost at sea) 1769. 



215 
215 
213 
214 
213 
214 



A Sunset 
■wreck) 



Picture (The Ship- 



216 

l:17 

216 



218 



Wrecked in the Tempest {The 
Skipwrcck) 217 

FAWCETT, EDGAK. 
b. New York City, 1847. 

Ideals 219 

The Wood-Turtie '.'.'.'.'.'. 221 
Wounds 220 

FAY, ANNA MAKIA. 

b. Savannah, Ga., March 12, 1S28. 

Roundel 222 

Sleep and Death 222 

FENNEK, CORNELIUS GEORGE. 
b. Providence, R. I.. Dec. .W, 1«22. 
d. Cincinnati, O., Jan. 4, 1847. 

Gulf-Weed 222 

FIELDS, ANNIE. 

Aged Sophocles Addressing the 
Athenians {Sophocles) . . . 224 

At the Forge 224 

Passage from the Prelude . . 225 

To Sappho 223 

Young Sophocles Taking the 
Prize {Last Contest of Aeschy- 
lus) 223 

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. 

b. Portsmonth, N. II., Dec. ."1, 1817. 

d. Boston, Mags., April 24, ISSl. 

A Character 226 

A Protest 226 

Courtesy 226 

First Appearance at the Odeon 227 

In Extremis 226 

Mornuigand Eveningby the Sea 225 

The Perpetuity of Song . . . 225 

FINCH, FRANCIS MILES, 
b. Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. 

The Blue and the Gray ... 227 

FRENEAU, PHILIP. 

b. New York Cit3', Jan. 2, 17.52. 
d. Monmouth, N. J., Dec. IS, 1832. 

May to April 228 

GALLAGHER, WILLIAJM D. 

b. Philadelphia, Aug., 18US. 

The Laborer 820 

Two Aprils 820 

GANNETT, WILLIAM CHANNING. 

b. Boston, Alass, 1840. 

Listening for God 228 

GARRISON, WILLIAiNI LLOYD, 
b. Ncwburyport, Mass., Dec. 12, 1804. 
d. New Y'ork, May 24, 1870. 

The Free Mind 229 

GASSAWAY, FRANK H. 

Bay Billy 229 

GAY, JOHN. 

b. Devonshire. Eng., 1688. 
d. London. Dec. 4, 1732. 

The Hare and Many Friends. . 725 
The Mother, the Nurse, and the 
Fairy. ...,..:,. 726 



GAY, WILLIAM WHEELER. 

b. Malone, N. Y., Jan. 16, 1854. 

Apollo Belvedere 820 

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON. 
b. Bordentown, N. J., Feb. 8, 1844. 

And Were that Best 233 

A Thought 233 

I Count my Time by Times that 

I Meet Thee . .' 232 

Love's Jealousy 233 

There is Nothing New under the 

Sun 231 

The Sower 231 

Througli Love to Light . . • . 233 

Two Love Quatrains 232 

Weal and Woe 231 

What Would I Save Thee From 232 

GOLDS^NIITH, OLIVER. 

b. Pallas, County of Longford, Ireland, 
Nov. 10, 1728. d. London,' April 4, 1774. 

France ( The Traveller) .... 236 

Hope ( The Oratorio of the Cap- 
tivitij) 237 

Memory {The Oratorio of the 
Captivity) 237 

The Happiness of Passing One's 
Age in Familiar Places {De- 
serted Village) 235 

The Prophet's Song {The Orato- 
rio of the Captirity) .... 237 

The Village Preacher {Deserted 
Villaye) 234 

The Village Schoolmaster {De- 
serted Village) 235 

GOODALE, DORA READ. 

b. South Egremont, Mass., Oct. 29, 1866. 

Ripe Grain . . • 237 

GOODALE, ELAINE. 

b. South Egremont, Mass., Oct. 9, 1863. 

Ashes of Roses 237 

GOSSE, EDMUND W. 
b. London, 1849. 

Sunshine in March 821 

Villanelle 821 

GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG. 

b. Lancaster, Mass., Sept. 3, 1789. 
d. Newbur3'port, Mass., Sept. 3, 1865. 

A Name in the Sand .... 238 
The Soul's Farewell ; . • . . 238 

GRAHAME, JAMES. 

b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1765, d. 1811. 

Sabbath Morning {The Sabbath) 239 

GRAY, DAVID. 

b. England, 18.38. d. England, 1861. 

Die Down, O Dismal Day ... 822 

If it :Must Be 822 

Wintry Weather 822 

GRAY, ELINOR. 

Isolation 240 



xlvi 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



GRAY, ELLIS (Louisa T. Craigen). 
b. Roxbury, Mass , Oct. 5, laSS. 

Sunshine 823 

GRAY, THOMAS. 

b. London, Dec. 2G, 1716. 

d. Cambridge, Eng., July 24, 1771. 

Elegy in a Country Churcliyard 240 
Ode on a Distant Prospect of 

Eton 244 

Ode on tlie Spring 243 

The Pleasures Arising from 

A'icissitude 243 

GUSTAFSOX, ZADEL BARXES. 

b. Middletown, Conn , March 9, 1841. 

Little ]\Iartin Craghan .... 245 

GREENWELL, DORA. 

b. Greenwell Ford, Durham, Dec. G, 1822. 
d. Cliflon, Eng., March 29, 1882. 

The Sunflower 823 

HAGEMAN, SAMUEL MILLER, 
b. Princeton, N. J., 1848. 

Only . . . . • 247 

The Two Great Cities .... 247 

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 

b. Guilford, Conn., July 8, 1790. 
d. Guilford, Conn., Nov. 19, 1867. 

Burns i. . 249 

Marco Bozzaris 248 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman 

Drake 251 

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAME 
(Miles O'Reilly) 
b. OUlcastle. Co. Meath, Ireland, 1S29. 
d. New York City, Aug. 3, 18(iS. 

Quakerdom — A Formal Call . 726 

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, 
b. Albany, N. Y., Aug. 25, 1839. 

Dow's Flat 727 

Lone Mountain Cemetery . . 2.52 
Plain Language from Truthful 

James 729 

To a Sea-bird 252 

HAVERGAL, FRANCES RIDLEY. 

b. Astley Rectory, Eng,. Dec. 14, 1836. 
d. Caswell liay, Swansea, June 3, 1879. 

Autobiography 823 

From "iMaking Poetry " . . . 826 

Song from " Right " ." .... 825 

The Col de Balm 826 

HAY, JOHN. 

b. Salem, Ind., Oct. 8, 1S39. 

A Woman's Love 254 

In a Graveyard 253 

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle 731 

Lagrimas 255 

Little Breeches 730 

On the Blutf 258 

Remorse 253 

The Prairie 253 



HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. 

b. Charleston, S. C, Jan. 1, 18:31. 

A Summer ^lood 2.55 

By the Autumn Sea 2.56 

Jasmine 2.57 

Lyric of Action 827 

The Sting of Death 257 

The Woodland 256 

Windless Rain 257 

HEBER, REGINALD. 

b. Cheshire, Eng., April 21, 1783. 
d. India, April 3; 1826. 

If Thou Wert by my Side . . . 2.58 

HEDDERWICK, JAMES. 

b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1814. 

Middle Life 258 

HEDGE, FREDERIC HENRY. 

b. Cambridge, Mass., Dec. 12, 1805. 

Questionings 259 

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA. 

b. Liverpool, En"., Sept. 25, 1794. 

d. near Dublin, Ireland, May 16, 18.35. 

Breathings of Sjn-ing .... 260 

Calm on the Bosom of thy God . 263 
Evening Prayer at a Girls' 

School . . ' 262 

Landing of the Pilgrims . . . 263 

The Hour of Death 261 

The Invocation 261 

HERBERT, GEORGE. 

b. Wales, April 3, 1593. 

d. Bemerton, Wilts Co., Eng., Feb., Ift33 

Advice on Church Behavior 

(Church Porch) 264 

Bosom Sin 265 

From "The Elixir" 827 

Sum up at Night (C7«W(7t Porch) 264 

The Pulley 263 

Yirtue 265 

HERRI CK, ROBERT. 

b. London, Aug. 20, 1.591. d. Devon, 1674. 
How the Heartsease First 

Came, 266 

Litany to the Holy Spirit ... 266 

Th<^ Primrose 266 

Tliree Epitaphs 266 

To Keep a True Lent .... 267 

To Perilla 265 

HERYEY, THOMAS KIBBLE, 
b. Manchester, Eng., 1804. d. Feb., 1859. 
Cleopatra Embarking on the 

Cydnus 267 

Epitaph 268 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 

b. Lincolnshire, Eng., 1.370. d. 1649. 

Good-morrow 268 

HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH. 
b. Cambridge, Mass., Dec. 22, 1823. 

Decoration 269 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



xlvii 



HILL, AARON. 

b. Eiigland, 16So. d. 1750. 

How to Deal -with Common Na- 
ture 825 

HILLARD, F. A. 

The Poet's Pen $27 

HILLARD, GEORGE STILLMAN. 

b. Macliias, Mc, Sept. 22, 1,S08. 

d. Jan. 21, isry. 



Lake George 



270 



271 
272 
274 
273 

275 

273 
273 
275 
274 



HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO. 

b. New York, 180(5. 

Monterej' 

HOGG, JAMES. 

b. Ettrick, Scotland, Jan. 2:>, ]rr2- 
d. Altrive, Scotland, Nov. 21, 1835. 

The Skylark 271 

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. 

b. Belohertown, Mass., July 24, 1819. 
d. Oct, 12, 1S81. 

A Song of Doubt {Bitter Sweet) . 
A Song of Faith " " 

Cradle Song " " 

Life from Death " " 

On the Righi 

Strength Through Resisted 

Temptation (Bitter Sweet) , . 

The Press of Sorrow {Bitter 

Sweet) 

The Type of Struggling Human- 
ity {Marble Prop Iter n) . . . 
To an Infant Sleeping {Bitter 

Sweet) 

What is the Little One Thinking 

Ahout'; (Bitter Siceet) . . . 272 
^yhat will it Matter? . . .275 
Worth and Cost (Bitter Sweet) . 273 

HOLME, SAXE. (?) 

Three Kisses of Farewell ... 276 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 

b. Cambridge, Mass., .Vug. 29, 1800. 

A Familiar Letter to several 

Correspondents 732 

Dorothy Q. — A Family Portrait 277 

Hymn of Trust 279 

Nearing the Snow-line .... 278 

The September Gale .... 733 

The Two Streams ...... 279 

The Voiceless 276 

Lender the Violets . . . ! ! 278 

HOOD, THOMAS. 

b. London, May 2'!, 1799. 

d. London, May 3, 1845. 

Ballad 2S4 

Faithless Nelly Gray .... 7.39 

Faithless Sally Brown .... 746 

Farewell, Life ! 2S3 

I'm not a Single Man . . . . 7.37 

I Remember, 1 Remember . . 2S0 

John Day 735 

Love Bettered by Time . . ! 284 



Melancholy 

Number One 

The Art of Book-keeping . . . 

The Bridge of Sighs 

The Cigar 

The Death-bed 

The Double Knock 

The Song of the Shirt . . . . 
To a Child Embracing his Mo- 
ther • . . . . 

To my Infant Son 

True Death 



HOPKINS, LOUISA PARSONS. 

b. Newburyport, April 19, 1&34. 
Autumn { Peisephone) . . 
Early Summer (Persephone) 

December 

Hymn from " Motherhood " 
Late Summer (Persephone) 
Tempestuous Deeps . . . 



279 
736 
741 

282 
738 
281 
7.38 
281 

280 
734 
2S4 



829 
828 
828 
829 
829 
828 



HOPKINSON, FRANCIS. 

b. Pliiladelphia, 17.38. d. May 9, 1791. 

The Battle of the Kegs .... 742 

HOUGHTON, GEORGE. 

b. Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 12, 1850. 

Ambition {Album Leaves) . . . 285 
Charity " " ... 286 

Courage " " ... 285 

Daisy " " ... 286 

Purity " " ... 286 

Regret " " ... 285 

This Name of Mine {Album 

Leai-es) 285 

Valborg Watching Axel's De- 
parture (Legend of St. Olaf's 
AJrA-) 284 

HOUGHTON, LORD (Richard Monckton 
Milnes). 
b. Yorkshire, Eng., June 19, 1809. 

Al! Things Once are Things For- 
ever • 289 

Divorced '. 288 

Forever Unconfessed .... 288 
I Wandered by the Brookside . 287 

Labor . . .' 286 

Since Yesterday 286 

The Worth of Hours .... 287 
HOWE, JULIA WARD, 
b. New York, May 27. 1819. 

Battle Hymn of the Republic . 289 
Imagined Reply of Eloisa 

( Thoughts in Pere La Chaise) . 289 
Stanzas from the " Tribute to a 

Servant" 290 

The Dead Christ 291 

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. 

b. Martinsville, Ohio, March 1, 1837. 

Convention 292 

Thanksgiving 292 

The Mulberries 292 

The Mysteries 292 

The Poet's Friends 292 



xlviii 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES, 



HOWITT, MAKY. 

b. Uttoxetcr, Eng, 1804. 

The Broom-Flower 294 

Tibbie Inglis 295 

HOWITT, WILLIAM. 

b. Derbyshire, Eng., 1793. d. March 2, IS'O. 

Departure of the Swallow . . 296 

HOYT, RALPH. 

b. New Yurk, 1808, d. 1878. 

Old 296 

HUNT, LEIGH. 

b. Southgate, Eng., Oct. 19, 1784. 
d. Putney, Aug. 28, 1839. 

Abou Ben Adliem 299 

Death 301 

lyiay and the Poets 301 

Stanzas from Song of the 

Flowers 299 

The Grasshopper and Cricket . 300 

HUTCHINSON, ELLEN MACKAY. 

Autumn Song 830 

On the Road 830 

Sea-way 830 

The Prince 830 

INGELOW, JEAN. 

b. Ipswich, Eng., 1830. 

Like a Laverock in the Lift . . 307 

Songs of Seven 301 

The Long White Seam .... 307 

JACKSON, HELEN (H.- H.) 

b. Amherst, Mass., 1831. 

July 831 

March 831 

My Nasturtiums (Th<- Crn/iiri/) . 832 

The Last Words " " ' . 830 

JENNISON, LUCIA W. (Owen Innsley). 
b. Newton, Mass., 1850. 

At Sea 833 

Dependence 833 

Her Roses 832 

111 a Letter 832 

Outre-mort 832 

JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD. 
b.,Washington, D. C, Jan. 12, 185.'!. 

In November (From The Century) 834 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 

b. Lichfield, Eng., Sept. 18, 1709. 
d. London, Dec. LS, 17S4. 

Charles XII. ( Inanity of Human 
Wishes) 308 

Enviable Age ( Vanity of Human 
Wishes) ..■..'.. . . 308 

The Fate of Poverty (London) . 309 
Wisdcim's Prayer {Vanity of 
llinnan Wishes) 308 

JONSON, BEN. 

b. Westminster, London, June II, 1574. 
d. Aug. 16, 1837. 

Epitaph 310 



Good Life, Long Life . . . • 310 

Hymn to Cynthia 310 

The Sweet Neglect 310 

ToCelia 309 

JOYCE, ROBERT DWYER. 

Kilcoleman Castle 834 

The Banks of Amier .... 835 

KAY, CHARLES de. 

Fingers 836 

KEATS, JOHN. 

b. London, 1795. d. Rome, Feb. 24, 1821. 
Beauty's Immortality {Endy- 

mion) 312 

Fancy .311 

Ode on the Poets 311 

Ode to a Nightingale .... 312 
On Reading Chapman's Homer . 314 
Sonnet Composed on Leaving 

England 311 

The Terror of Death .... 310 

KEBLE, JOHN. 

b. Fairford, Gloucestershire, En"., .\pril 25, 
1792. d. Bournemouth, Eng., March 29, IStiG. 

Since all that is not Heaven 

must Fade 316 

Where is thy Favored Haunt ? . 314 
Why Should we Faint, and Fear 
to Live Alone '? 315 

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 
b. London, 1811. 

Absence 317 

Faith 318 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. 

b. Frederick Co., Md., Aug. 1, 1779. 
d. Baltimore, Jan. 11, 1843. 
The Star-Spangled Banner . . 318 

KIMBALL, HARRIET McEW^EN. 

b. Portsmouth, N. H., 1804. 

Day Dreaming 320 

Good News 319 

Heliotrope 319 

The Last Appeal 320 

Trouble to Lend 319 

KING, HENRY. 

b. England. 1591. d. lGi;9. 

From the " Exequy on his 
Wife" 836 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 

b. nolne, Devonshire. Eng., June 12, 1819. 

d. Eversley, Jan. 24, 1875. 

A Farewell 321 

Dolcino to Margaret 321 

Sands of Dee 321 

The Three Fishers 321 

KNOX, WILLIAM. 

b. Roxburghe, Scotland. 1789. d. 1825. 
Oil ! why ShotiUl the Spirit of 
Mortal be Proutl 322 



INDEX OF AUTHOBS AND TITLES. 



xlix 



LACOSTE, MARIE R. 

b Savannah, Ga., 1842. 

Somebody's Darling 323 

LAIGHTON, ALBERT. 

b. Portsmouth, N. H. ]82'.l. 

By the Dead 324 

Uniler the Leaves 324 

LAMB, CHARLES. 

b. London, Feb. IS, 1775. 

d Edmonton, Eng., Dec. 27, 1834. 

Hester 32,5 

Old Familiar Faces 32.5 

The Housekeeper 325 

LANDOR, L.ETITIA ELIZABETH. 

b. Chelsea, Eng., ia)2. 
d. Africa, Oct. 10, ]8.'!8. 

Success Alone Seen 326 

The Little Shroud 326 

Sir Walter Scott at Poiupeii . . 327 

The Poet 327 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 

b Ipsley Court, Warwickshire, Eng., Jan. 
3(1, 1775. d. Florence, Sept. 17, 18(H. 

A Request 328 

Death of the Day 328 

In No Haste . 327 

I Will Not Love 328 

Rose Aylnier 328 

Rubies 327 

The One White Hair .... 743 

Under the Lindens 743 

LANIER, SIDNEY. 

b. Macon, Ga., 1842. d. 1881. 

Betrayal 

Evening Song 

From the Flats' 



329 

328 
328 



LARCOM, LUCY. 

b. Beverly Farms, Mass., 1826. 

A Strip of Blue .332 

Hand in Hand with Angels . . 332 
Hannah Binding Shoes . . . 329 
Heaven near the Virtuous (From 

Hints) 333 

The Curtain of tlie Dark {From 

Hints) 3,30 

Unwedded 330 

LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS. 

b. Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, Aug. 25, 1851. 

A Face in the Street .... 3.36 

New Worlds 334 

Sailor's Song ! ! 3.35 

The Lily Pond 3,34 

To My Son 334 

LATHROP, ROSE HAWTHORNE. 
The Striving of Hope {Closing 
Chords) 837 

LAZARUS, EMMA. 

b. New York, July 22, 1849. 

A March Violet 3:57 



Night {Scenes in the Wood) . . 337 
Pleasant Prospect {Scenes in the 

Wood) 336 

Remember • 338 

LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY, 
b. Philadelphia, Aug. 15, 1824. 

City Experiences (Breitmann 

About Toicn) 744 

Mine Own 339 

Schnitzerl's Philosopede . , . 745 

LEVER, CHARLES JAMES, 
b. Dublin, Ireland, Aug. 31, 1806. 
d. Trieste, June 1, 1872. 

Widow Malone 745 

LEYDEN, JOHN. 

b. Dcnholm, Scotland, Sept. 8, 1775. 
d. Batavia, JS. I., Aug. 21, 1811. 

Ode to an Indian Coin .... 339 
LODGE, THOINIAS. 

b. Lincolnshire, Eng., 1556. 
d. London, Sept., 1625. 

Rosaline 340 

LOGAN, JOHN. 

b. Fala, near Edinburgh, Scotland, 1748. 
d. London, Dec. 28, 17.%^. 

The Cuckoo 341 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. 

b. Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807. 

d. Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882. 

A Day of Sunshine 345 

Maiden and Weathercock . . 343 

Nature 343 

President Garfield 837 

Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, 

and Rest 342 

The Meeting 342 

The Ladder of St. Augustine . ,341 

The Tides .343 

Three Friends of Mine .... .344 

The Two Angels .344 

Weariness 342 

LONGFELLOW, SAJIUEL. 
b. Portland, Me., June 18, 1819. 

From iVIire to Blossom .... 346 

LOVELACE, RICHARD. 

b. Woolwich, Eng., 1018. d. London, 1658. 
To Lucasta, on Going beyond 

the Seas 346 

To Lucasta, on Going to the 
Wars 346 

LOVER, SAMUEL. 

b. Dublin, Ireland, 17117. d. July 6, 18(B. 

Fatherland and Mother Tongue 748 

Father Molloy 748 

Oh ! Watch You Well bv Day- 
light 347 

Rory O'More 746 

The' Angel's Wing 347 

The Birth of St. Patrick . . . 74t) 

The Child and the Autunni Leaf 347 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



Widow Machree 

Yield Not, Thou Sad One, to 
Sighs . . . . 

LOWELL, JAMES BUSSELL. 
b. Cambridge, Muss., Feb. 22, ISD). 

After the Burial 

Auf Wiedersclien 

June ((-';/(/(/■ llw Wdlows) 
Storm at Ai)plt'dore .... 
The Courtin' (liiylow Papers) 
Tlie Generosity of Nature 

( Vision of air Launfal) . 
The Heritage ..... 
Without and Within 

LUNT, GEORGE. 

b. Newburyport, Mass., Dee. 31, 1803. 

The Comet 8.38 

LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS. 

b. Ednaiii, Scotland, 171)3. d. 1«47. 

Abide With Me 353 

LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. 

b. Cincinniiti, Nov. 2. 1S2G. 

Killed battle Chiekamauga, Sept. 20, 1SC3. 

Antony to Cleopatra .... 353 
LYTTON, LORD (Edward Bulwer) 

b. England, 1S05. 

Caradoc, the Bard, to the Cym- 
rians {h'i)t(/ Arthur) .... 839 

Is it all Vaiiity 838 

Justice, tlie Regenerative Power 
{mc/ielicu) 839 

LYTTON, ROBERT BULWER (Owen 
Meredith), 
b. Herts, Eng., Nov. 8, 1831. 

A Character (Lucilc) . . 

Changes 

Fame (Liicile) . . 

Few in Many " . . 

Life a Victory " . . 

The Cliess-board .... 
The Erratic Genius (Lurile) 
The Stomach of Man " 
The Unfulfilled 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON. 
1). Leicestershire. Eng., Oct. 25, 1800. 
d. London, Uec. £8, 1850. 

From " The Lay of Horatius " . 354 

MACDONALI>, GEORGE. 
b. Huntley, Scotland, 182.';. 

O Lassie ayont the Hill. . . . 3.59 
The Baby " 3.59 

MACE, FRANCES LAUGHTON. 
b. Orono, Me., Jan. 15. 183C. 

Easter Morning 360 

0..1y Waiting 360 

The Heliotrope 361 

MACKAY, CHARIvES. 

b. Perth, Scotland, 1812. 

A Question Answered .... 365 



At a Club Dinner 75H 

Be Quiet, do 757 

Clear the Way ! 36i! 

Cleon and I 362 

Extract from " A Reverie in the 

Grass " 3ti5 

Happiness 757 

O ve Tears 364 

Tell me, ye Winged Winds . . .366 

The Child and the Mourners . 361 

The Good Time Coming . . . 363 

The great Critics 757 

The Liglvt in the Window . . . 363 

The little Man 758 

To a Friend afraid of Critics . 754 

MANN, CAMERON. 

b. New York City. April ."., lS.il. 

The Longing of Circe .... .H42 

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 

b. Canterbury, Kng., Feb. 2C, 1504. 
d. Dcpttbrd, June 16, 1503. 

A Passionate Sheplierd to his 
Love 842 

MARSTON. PHILIP BOURKE. 
b. London, 1850. 

From Afar 843 

Too Near 843 

MABVELL, ANDREW. 

b. Winestead, Yorkshire, Eng., March 2, 1621. 
d. London, Aug. IT, 1078. 

A Drop of Dew 367 

MASON, CAROLINE ATHERTON. 

May (From T/ie Century) ... 844 
An opeu Secret " '" 844 

MASSEY, GERALD. 

b. Herts, Eng., May 29, 1828. 

And thou hast Stolen a Jewel . 368 
Jerusalem the Golden .... 367 
The Kingliest Kings 368 

MCCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. 

b. Cork, Ireland, 1820. 

Summer Longings 369 

McKAY, JAMES I. 

A Summer Morning 842 

MERRICK, JAMES. 

b. Reading, Eng., Jan. 8, 1720. 
d. Reading, Eng., June 5, 1709. 

The Chameleon 7.59 

MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. 

b. Langholm, Scotland, 17*1. 

The Sailor's Wife 372 

MICHELL, NICH0L.4S. 

Alexander at Persepolls . . . :!70 

The Paradise of Cabul. ... 371 



MILLER, ABRAHAM PERRY, 
b. Ohio, Oct. 15, 18;17. 

Keep Faith in Love ( Consolation) .S74 
Kef uge from iJoubt '• i!76 

Turu to the Helper " 373 

MILTOK. JOHN. 

I). London, Dec. !l, 1608. 
d. London, Nov. is, iHTi. 

Apostrophe to Light (Paradise 

Lost) 381 

II Penseroso 376 

L' Allegro .375 

On his Blindness .379 

On Reaching Twentv-three . . 380 

On Time . . . .' .... .374 

Song on ]May Morning .... 378 
Stnnzas from '' Hymn on the 

Nativity" ....'.... 379 
The Bower of Adam and Eve 

{Paradise Lost) 380 

To a virtuous young Lady . . 380 

MITCHELL, WEIR. 

The Quaker Graveyard (From 
The Century) . . ' 844 

MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. 

b. Musselbursli, .Scotland, Jan. 5, 1798. 
d. Uiiinfrics, July t;, INol. 

Stanzas from "Casa Wappy " . 381 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES, 
b. Irvine, Scotland. No^". 4, 1771. 
d. ShefHcId, April :», 1854. 

Aspirations of Youth .... 384 

Forever with the I.,ord .... 385 

Friend after Friend Departs . 384 

Love of Country, and of Home . 382 

Prayer 383 

The" common Lot 383 

MOORE, THOMAS. 

b. Dublin. Irel.ind. May 28, 17711. 
d. Sloperton, Feb. L'5, lbJ2. 

As slow our .Ship 388 

Come, ye Disconsolate .... 387 
Estrangement through Trifles 

(Lalla Pookh) 385 

Extracts from Miss Biddy's Let- 
ters (Fudge Family in Paris) . 760 
I Saw from' the Beach .... 387 
Oft in the stilly Night .... 386 
O Thou wlio Dry'st the Mourn- 
er's Tears 386 

Recognition of a congenial 

Spirit (Lai la Jiookli) .... 385 

The Bird Let loose 3i^6 

The modern puffing System (An 

Epistle to Samuel Rogers) . . 760 

Those Evening Bells .... .387 

Thou Art, O God 387 

MORRIS, GEORGE P. 

b. Philadelphia, Oct. V2. 1802. 
d. New York, July 6, 18G4. 

Woodman, Spare that Tree . . 388 



MORRIS, WILLIAM. 

b. England, 1834. 

April (Earthly Paradise) . . 390 

December " " . . 390 

Februarv " " . . 389 

March " " . . 389 

JMOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 

b. Glasgow, Scotland, Oct. 13, 17117. 
d. Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 1, 18J5. 

Jeanie Morrison 392 

Last Verses 391 

My Heid is like to Rend, Willie 391 

The Cavalier's Song, 392 

Thev Come ! The merry Sum- 
mer Mouths ....... 394 

MOULTOS, ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER, 
b. Ponifret, Conn., April IG, 1833. 

At Sea 845 

From a Window in Chamouni . 846 

Hie Jacet 846 

Left behind 845 

My Saint 845 

NAIRNE, LADY CAROLINE OLIPHANT. 
b. Gask. Perthshire, Scotland. July IC, 17GC. 
d. Gask, Oct. 27, 184.v. 

The Land o' the Leal .... 394 

NEWELL, WILLIA]M, D.D. 

b. Littleton, Mass., Feb. 25, 1804. 

Serve God and be Cheerful . . 395 

NEAVMAN, JOHN HENRY, 
b. London, Eng., Feb. 21, 1801. 

A Voice from afar 396 

Flowers without Fruit .... 396 

NORTON, ANDREWS. 

b. Hingham, Mass., Dec. 31, 1786. 
d. Newport, R. 1., Sept. 18, 1853. 

Scene after a Summer Shower . 396 

NORTON, CAROLINE E. S. S. 
b. Hampton Court, Eng., 1*8. d. 1877. 

Bingen on the Rhine .... 397 
We have been Friends Together 398 

O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE, 
b. Ireland, 1844. 

Forever 400 

Hidden Sins 401 

Peace and Pain 399 

The Ride of Collins Graves . . 399 

Unspoken Words 401 

ORNE, CAROLINE FRANCES. 

The Gold under the Roses . . 846 

OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT. 

b. Boston. Ma<s., June 18, 1811. 
d. Hingham, Ma-s., May 12, 18511. 

Laborare est Oraro 402 

OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM. 

b. Frj-eburg, Me... 1840. 

Before the Prime 403 

Driving home the Cows . . . 403 



lii 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR W. E. 

b. London, 1844. d London, 1881. 

Song of a Fellow-worker . . . 404 

PALFREY, REBECCA S. 
b. Cambridge, Mass. 

White underneath 405 

PALFREY, SARAH HAMMOND (E. 
Foxton). 
b. Cambridge, Mass. 

The Child's Plea 847 

The Light-house 847 

PALMER. WILLL\M PITT. 

b. Stockhridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 180.5. 

The Smack in School .... 762 
PARKER, THEODORE. 

b. Lexington, Mass., Aug. 24, 1810. 
d. Florence, Italy, May 10, 1S(J0. 

The Higher (iood 400 

The Way, the Truth, and the 
Life 406 

PARNELL, THOMAS. 

b. Dublin, Ireland, Kiro 

d. Chester, England, July, 1717. 

Hymn to Contentment .... 407 
PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM, 
b. Boston, Aug. 18, 1813. 

Hudson River 408 

Saint Peray 763 

The Groomsman to his Mistress 410 

PATMORE, COVENTRY (Kearsey Digh- 
ton). 
b. Woodford, Eng., July 23, 1S2.3. 

Sweet Meeting of Desires {Tlic 
liefrothal) 410 

Would Wisdom for herself be 
Wooed 411 

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES, 
b. Berlin, Conn., Sept. 15, 179.5. 
d. Hazelgreen, Wis., May 2, 18,57. 

Apostrophe to the Sun (Prome- 
theus, Part II.) 411 

The Coral Grove 413 

To .Seneca Lake 413 

PERRY, NORA, 
b. Providcnec, R. I. 

After tlie Ball 414 

In an Hour 41.5 

Some Day of Days 41 6 

Tying her Boniiet under her 

Chin 415 

PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART. 

b. Boston, Mass. Aug. 31, 1844. 

A Letter 417 

All the Rivers 416 

Deserted Nests 417 

George Eliot 416 

PIATT, JOHN JAMES, 
b. Milton, Ind., March 1, 18.'i.5. 

A Song of Content 4i<j 



Reading the Milestone .... 418 

The Gohlen Hand 418 

The Love-letter 418 

The Sight of Angels 418 

Two Patrons 418 

PIATT, SARAH M. B. 
b. Lexington, Ky., !8.;.j. 

A Dream's Awakening .... 4l'0 

Asking for Tears 421 

Calling the Dead 421 

Last Words 41!» 

Making Peace • 421) 

That New World 420 

The Flowers in the Ground . . 421 

To-day 411) 

PIERPONT, JOHN. 

b. Litchfield, Conn., April 6, 1785. 
d. Medford, Mass., Aug. 2!l, \m&. 

]MV Child 422 

The Pilgrim Fathers .... 422 
Whittling 764 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN, 
b. Boston, .Mass., Feb. li). 18(J'J. 
d. Baltimore, Md., Oct. 7, 1849. 

.Annabel Lee 423 

The Bells . 424 

The Raven 42.5 

To 3Iy Mother 425 

POLLOK, ROBERT. 

b. Muirlidusc, Renfrewshire, Scotland, 1799. 
d. Southampton, Eng., .Sept. 15, 1827. 

Lord Byron (Course of Time) . 428 

POPE, ALEXANDER. 

h. London, May 21, HISS. 

d. Twickenhau"], May , 'SO, 1744. 

An Author's Complaint (Epistle 

to Dr. Arlinthnot) 765 

Belinda (Uape of the Lock) . . 767 
Charity, gradually Pervasive 

(Essay on Man) 431 

Dullness (Duiiciiii/) 765 

Excessive Praise or Blame (Es- 

sa>i on Criticism) 432 

From Eloisa to Abelard ... 429 
Just Judgment (Essai/ on Criti. 

cism) 4;!3 

Man (Essai/ on Mmi) .... 430 
Merit be\ond Beauty (Rape of 

the Lock) 768 

Submission to Supreme Wisdom 

(Essn]i on Afnn) 430 

The Universal Prayer .... 433 
True Nobility (Essay on Afnn) . 431 
Truth to Nature (Essay on 

Criticism) 432 

Virtue, the sole Unfailing Hap- 
piness (/r.<.s«)/ wt jl/aii) . . , 431 
Vt^it, (Essai/ on Criticism) ... 432 

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. 

b. London, Eng,, >H02. 

d. July 15, 18;». 

Quince 771 

The Belle of the Ball .... 769 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES, 



PKENTICE, GEORGE DEXXISON. 

b. Preston, Conn., Dec. 18, 1802. 
d. Louisville, Jan. 1*2, 1870. 

The River in the Mammoth Cave 
PRESCOTT, MARY N. 

Asleep 

The old Storv 

To-day . . ' 



847 



PRESTON, MARGARET JUXKIX. 

b. Lexinijton, Va., 1835. 

Equipoise 

God's Patience 

Nature's Lesson 

Ours 

Stonewall Jackson's Grave . 
There'll Come a Day . , . 

The Shadow 

The Tyranny of INIood . . . 

PRINGLE, THOMAS. 

b. Blaiklaw, Scotland. Jan. 5, 1789. 
d. London, Dec. 5, IS;'^. 

Afar in tlie Desert .... 



4.3.5 
43.3 
434 



434 
435 
435 
4.34 
4L'5 
43t) 
435 
436 



PRIOR, MATTHEW. 

b. Wimhiirnc-Miiistcr, En?., July 21, ICGl. 
d. Cambridgeshire, Sept. IS, 1721". 

An Epitaph 

For mv own Jlonument . . . 

From '" The Thief and the Cor- 
delier " . . . ■ 

Richard's Theory of the Mind 
(^Alma') 

The wise Man in Darkness 
(Solomon) 

The wise Man in Light (Solomon) 

PROCTOR, ADELAIDE ANNE. 

b. London, Eng., Oct. SO, 1825. 
d. London, Feb. 2, 1804. 

A Lost Chord 

A Woman's Question . . 
Cleansing Fires .... 
Incompleteness .... 

Judge Not 

One by One 

Strive, Wait, and Pray 

Thankfulness 

Too Late 



437 



441 
442 
442 
443 
440 
440 
443 
440 
441 



PROCTOR, BRYAN WALLER. 

b. Wiltshire. En<r., Nov. 21, 1789. 
d. London. Oct. 5, 1874. 



A Petition to Time .... 


444 


A Praver in Sickness . . . 


445 


History of a Life 


445 


I Die for thy sweet Love . . 


446 


Life 


ill 


Love me if I Live .... 


444 


Softly Woo away her Breath 


446 


The Poet's Song to his Wife . 


445 


The Sea 


444 



PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. 

b. llenniker, N. H. 

But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot 
Lose 



446 



Contoocook River 447 

Daily Dying 44x 

Heroes ^ 44K 

Sunset in Moscow * 449 

To Moscow 449 

QUARLES, FRANCIS. 

b. Stewards, near Runiiord, Eng. 1592. 
d. London, Sept. 8. 1044. 

Grief for the Loss of the Dead . 451 

On Doves and Serpents . . . 451 

On Man 451 

On Sin 451 

On the Life of JNIan 451 

The World 4.50 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 

b. Haves, East Budleigh, Eng.. 1552. 

Beheaded, Westminster, Oct. 29, lOlS. 

The Lie 452 

The Silent Lover 452 

READ, THO:\IAS BUCHANAN. 

b. Chester County, I'enn., March 12, 1822. 
d. New York, May 11, ls72. 

Drifting 456 

Sheridan's Ride 453 

The Brave at Home 456 

The Closing Scene 454 

REALF, RICHARD, 
b. Uckfield, Eng., I.si4. 
d. Oakland, Cal., 1878. 

My Slain 457 

REDDEN, LAURA C. aioward Glyndon). 
Fair and Fifteen 848 

RICH, HELEN. 

b. New York State, June 18, 1827. 

Silent Mothers 849 

RICH, HIRAM. 

b. Gloucester, Mass.. Oct. 28, 1.S;'2. 

Still Tenanted 849 

RICHARDSON. CHARLES FRANCIS, 
b. Francis, Hallowell, Me., May 29, 1851 

Amends 458 

Imitation 459 

Justice 459 

Patience 459 

Worship . . • 4.58 

RIORDAN, ROGER. 

Invocation (From The Century) 8.50 

RITTER, IVIARY L. 

Recompense (From The Century) 851 

ROBERTS, SARAH. 

b. Portsmouth. N. H. 

The Voice of the Grass . . . 459 

ROBERTSON, HARRISON, 
b. Murfreesboro.Tenn., Jan. IG, 1856. 

An Idle Poet (From The Century) 851 
Coquette " " 851 



liv 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



ROGERS, SAMUEL. 

b. near London, July 30, ir(i3. 
d. Dec. IS, 1855. 

Age (Humnn Life) 463 

Exhortation to Marriage . . . 461 
Guardian Spirits {Pleasures of 

Memory) 464 

Heart Superior to Head . . . 461 

Man's Restlessness 461 

Memory (Pleasures of Memory) 463 

On a. C\i\U(neflections). ... 461 
The Old School-house {Plea,sures 

of Memonj) 464 

The Passage from Birth to Age 

(Human Life) 462 

Tlie Perversion of Great Gifts . 460 

The Selfish {Reflections) ... 461 

True Union {Human Life) . . 462 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGIANA. 
b. London, Eng., Dee., IS30. 

At Home 466 

Remember ■ • 465 

Song 465 

Sound Sleep 46.5 

The Eirst Spring Day .... 46.5 

Up-hill 464 

Wife to Husband 466 

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 

b. London, Eng., 1828. 

d. London, Eng., April 11, 1882. 

Lost Days 46>< 

The Blessed Daniozel .... 467 
The Sea Limits 467 

RUSSELL, IRWIN. 

d. New Orleans, Dec, 1879. 

Her Conquest (From The Cen- 
tury) 8.51 

SANGSTER, MARGARET E. 
b. New Rochelle, N. Y., 18.J.S. 

Our Own 468 

Sufficient unto the Day . . . 468 

SARGENT, EPES. 

b. Gloucester. JVIass., Sept. 27, 1812. 
d. Dec. .il, IbSO. 

A Life on the Ocean Wave . . 465 

A Summer Noon at Sea . . . 471 

A Thought of the Past .... 470 

Cuba 471 

Forget me Not 469 

Soul of my Soul 469 

The Spring-time will Return . 470 

Tropical Weather 471 

SAVAGE, MINOT JUDSON. 
b. Norridgewock. Me., June 10, 18-11. 
Lives Boston, Mass. 

Life in Death 472 

Light on the Cloud 473 

Pescadero Pebbles 472 

SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. 

b. Highgate, Vt., June 2, 1810. 

About Husbands 778 



Early Rising 777 

How Cyrus Laid the Cable . . 77.5 

I'm Growing old 474 

Little Jerry, the Miller . . . 474 

Railroad Rhyme 779 

Somewhere 474 

Song of Saratoga 776 

The Family Man 779 

The Old Man's Motto .... 473 

The Puzzled Census-taker . . 776 

The Superfluous Man .... 77.5 

To my Love 47(! 

Treasure in Heaven 476 

Wouldn't you Lilie to Know . 47.5 

SAXTON, ANDREW BICE. 

b. Middleficld, N. Y., April 5, 18.T.. 

Delay (From The Century) . 852 
Midsummer " " . 8.52 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 

h. Edinburgh, Scotland. Aug. l.i, 1771. 
d. Abbotsford, Scotland, Sipt. 21, 18'12. 

A Picture of Ellen {Lady of the 

Lake) 477 

A Scene in the Highlands (Lndij 

of the Lake 477 

Breathes there a Man (Ijay of 

the Last Minstrel) . . . . ' . 478 

Faith in Unf aith ( The Betrothed) 479 

Helvellyn 481 

Love ( Lay of the Last MinJ^frel) 478 
Melrose Abbey by :Moonlight 

{Lay of the Last Minstrel) . . 478 

Paternal Love ( Lady of the Lake) 478 

Payment in Store {/•'edoauntlet) 479 

Rebecca's Hymn (Icnnhoe) . . 479 
Summer Dawn at Loch Katrine 

(Lady of the Lake) 476 

The Sun" upon the Weirdlaw- 

Hill 480 

The Violet 481 

Wandering Willie . • . . 480 

SEAVER, EMILY. 

b. Charlestown, Mass., Nov. 5, 1S35. 

The Rose of .Jericho .... 482 

SEW ALL, HARRIET WINSLOW. . 
b. Portland, Me., June 30, 1810. 

Why thus Longing? 483 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 

b. Strati'.. rd-on-Avon, April 23, 15G4. 
d. April 2.% ICIG. 

Constant Effort Necessary to 
Support Fame {Troilus and 
Cressida) . 4> 6 

End of all Earthly Glory (7V(e 
Tempest 4S7 

False Appearance {Merchant of 
Venice) 485 

Fear no More (Cymbeiine) . . 488 

Fear of Death (Measure for 
Measure) 487 

Good Counsel of Polonius to 
Laertes (Hamlet) 485 

Ingratitude {As i/ou Like It) . . 484 

Life's Theatre " " . . 4.*4 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



Iv 



Life's Vicissitudes (/ft'nry VIII,) 487 
Love, the Solace of present Cal- 
amity 488 

Love, the Retriever of past 

Losses 489 

Love Unalterable 489 

Mercy (Merchant of Venice) . . 48G 

No Spring without the Beloved. 489 
The Horse of Adouis {Venus 

and Adonis) 488 

To Be, or not to Be (Hamlet) . 484 

To rny Soul 489 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 

b. Field Place, Sussex. Eng.. Aiifc. 4, 1702 
Drowned in the Bay of ^pl■ziu. Italv, July 
8, lS:i2. ■ ■' 

Death 492 

From " The Sensitive-Plant " . 493 
From "To a Lady ^vith a 

Guitar" 495 

Good-Night 495 

Love's Philosophy 490 

Music, when soft Voices Die . 492 

Mutability 4(;,5 

One Word is too often Profaned 490 

The Cloud 492 

The World's Wanderers . . . 492 

Time 492 

To a Skylark 490 

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM. 

b, Leasowes, near Ilales-Owen. Eng.,Nov.. I7H. 
<l._I.easowes, near Hales-Owen, tug., Feb. U, 



The School- 



498 



852 



Stanzas from 

mistress " . 
Written at an Inn at Henley . 

SHIRLEY, JAMES. 

b. London, \3'M. d. London, Oct. 20, 1066. 

Death the Leveller (Coitfcntion 

of Ajax and Ulysses) . . . 

SHURTLEFF, ERNEST W. 
b. Boston, April -(, 1S62. 

Out of the I>ark 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 

b. Fenshurst, Kent. Eng., Nov. 20, 1554 
d. Arnheini, Holland, Oct. 7, 15SG. 

Sonnet to Sleep 499 

SIGOURNEY, LVDIA HUNTLEY. 

b. Norwich, Conn., .'Jept. 1, 1701. 

d. Hartford, Conn., June 10, IStiS. 

Benevolence .500 

Farewell of the Soul to theBody 499 
The Coral Insect 500 

SIMMS, WILLIAM GILIMORE. 

b. Charleston, S. C, April 17, ISOC. 

a. Charleston, S. C, June 11, 1.S70. 

Friendship 50,3 

Heart e.ssential to (Jenius . '. 502 

Manhood 593 

Night-storm ! '. 503 

Progress in Denial 501 

Recompense 502 

Solace of the Woo.ls ' ' 'ioi 



Triumph 504 

Unhappy Childhood 503 

SMITH, ALEXANDER. 

b. Kilmarnock, Scotland, Dec. .'il, If«l). 
d. WarcJie, near Ldiiiburgli, Jan. 25, J,sii7. 

Barbara (Horton) .-,04 

Glasgow 505 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE TURNER. 

b. Sussex, Eng., 1740. d. ISOfi. 

The Close of Spi-ing .^07 

The Cricket .507 

SAIITH, FLORENCE. 

b. Xew York City. March 11, ]84^ 
d. Fort Washington, July 10, 1S71. 

Somebody Older .509 

The Purple of the Poet (Hain- 
bow Songs) .508 

The Yellow of the Miser (Rain- 
bow Sont/s) .508 

Uurequitiiig 509 

SMITH, HORACE, 
b. London, Dee. .31. 1770. 
d. Tunbridge Wells, July 12, 1S40. 

Address to a Mummy . . . . ."ill 
Hymn to the Flowers .... 510 

SMITH, MAY REILLY-. 
b. Brighton, N. Y., 1S42. 

If 

Sometime 



51.-! 

51;; 

SOUTHEY, CAROLINE ANTvE BOWLES, 
b. Buckland, Eng., Dee. 6, 1787. 
d. July 20, 1854. 

I never Cast a Flower away . . 515 
Launch thy Bark, Mariner . . 514 
The Pauper's Death-bed . . . 514 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 

b. Bristol, Eng., Aug. 12. 1774. 
d. Cumberland, Eng., March 21, 184.3. 
Love's Immortality (Curse of 

Keliaina) ..." 517 

Nature's Questions and Faith's 

Answer (Thataba) . 515 

Night " . ,516 

Remedial Suffering " . 5i(; 

The Battle of Blenheim . . . .520 
The Cataract of Lodore ... 521 

The Ebb-tide .522 

The Holly-Tree 5IS 

The Maid of Orleans Girding for 

Battle (Joan of Arc) .... 517 
The <dd Man's Comforts, and 

how he Gained them .... 517 
The Pauper's Funei-al .... 519 
The twofold Power of all 

Things (r/(rt/a6o) 516 

To the Fire .522 

Written on Sunday Morning . . 519 

SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. 

b. Hogsham, Norfolk, Eng., l.V». 
d. London, Feb. 21, 1505. 

Content and Rich :r£i 



Ivi 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



SPALDING, SUSAN MAKR. 

A Desire (From The Centuri/) . 85o 

SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT. 

b. England, 17G9. d. Paris, Oct. 23, 1834. 

The Speed of happy Hours . . 524 

SPENSER, EDMUND. 

b. London, 1.5.i2 or 1.553. 

d. Westminster, Jan. 16. 1599. 

A Hospital (The Faerie Qiieene) 527 

Angelic Care " " 528 

Avarice " " 525 
The Bride Beautiful, Body and 

Soul (Epithalamlum) .... 524 
The Captive Soul ( The Faerie 

Qtieene) 525 

Una and the Lion ( The Faerie 

Queene) 526 

Victory from God ( The Faerie 

Queene) 528 

SPOFFORD, HARRIET E. PRESCOTT. 

b. Calais, Me., April 3, lS.w. 

A Four o'clock 531 

A Snowdrop 5.31 

Fantasia 530 

Hereafter 529 

Measure for Measure .... 531 

My own Song 531 

Our Neighbor 530 

Palmistry 530 

The Nun and Harp 529 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES. 

b. Boston, Mass., Oct. 2r,, 17!)!. 
d. BusLon, Mass., Jan. 14, 1S75. 

From the " Ode on Shakespeare " 534 

Ode on Art 532 

The Family Meeting 533 

The Winged Worshippers . . . 532 

To my Cigar 533 

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE. 
b. Hartford, Conn., Oct. 8, 1853. 

All in a Lifetime 539 

Laura, my Darling 535 

Seeking the jNlayflower .... .538 

The Discoverer 538 

The Doorstep 537 

The Test 535 

The Tryst 536 

The Undiscovered Country . . 536 

Too Late 537 

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY, 
b. Ilingham, Mass., July, 1825. 

Abraham Lincoln 540 

An old Song Reversed .... 540 

At Last 540 

How are Songs Begot and Bred 541 

Out of the Deeps of Heaven . . 542 

Pain and Pleasure 542 

Rattle the Window 541 

Silent Songs 542 

Songs Unsung 541 

The Fliglit of Youth ,'-i40 

The Health 542 



The Marriage Knot 781 

The Mistake 780 

The Two Brides 540 

Too old tor Kisses 780 

We Sat by the Cheerless Fireside 542 
When the Drum of Sickness 

Beats 541 

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE. 

b. Salem, Mass., Feb. 1), 1819. 

The Unexpressed 543 

The Violet ........ 543 

Wetmore Cottage, Naliant . . .543 

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. 

b. Litchfield, Conn., June 1, 1812. 

Life's Mystery 544 

The other World 544 

STREET, ALFRED BILLINGS. 

b. Poughkeepsie, N. Y., Dee. 18, isil. 

d. June 2, ISSl. 

A Forest Walk 548 

A Picture ( The Nool: in the For- 
est) 549 

Cayuga Lake {Frontenac) 547 

Quebec at Sunrise " 545 

Quebec at Sunset '' 545 

The Bluebird's Song 549 

The Canadian Spring(Fron tenar) 546 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, 
b. Whitton, Eng.. KTO. 
d. Paris, May 7, 1(141. 

Constancy .5.50 

I Prithee Send me back my Heart 550 
Why so I'ale and Wan, Fond 
Lover 550 

SURREY, EARL OF (Henry Howard), 
b. England, 1510. 
d. London, Jan. 21, i'A7. 

From " No Age is Content " . . 551 
In Praise of his Lady Ijove com- 
pared with all Others . . . 551 
The Means to attain Happy Life 551 

SWIFT, JONATHAN, 
b. England, l(iC7. d. 1745. 

Verses ou his own Death . . . 781 

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES, 
b. Ilolmwood, Eng., April 5, 1837. 

A Forsaken Garden 5.53 

A IMatch 555 

From "A Vision of Spring in 

Winter " 552 

From " Christmas Antiphones" 556 

In Memory of Barry Corn\i'all . 552 

SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON. 
b. Oxford, Eng., April 10, ia)7. 

Beati Illi .558 

Farewell 559 

From Friend to Friend .... 560 

Mene, Mene 558 

New Life, New Love ,559 

On the Hillside 5.59 

Self (The Al^js and Italy) . . . 560 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



Sonnets from " Intellectual Iso- 
lation " 561 

The Ponte di Paradiso . ■ . . 560 

The Prayer to Mnemosyne . . 560 

The Will 559 

TALFOURD, SIR THOMAS NOOX. 

b. Doxey, Eni., Jan.2fi, 1795. 
d. Stafford, Eng., MarcU 13, 1S.")4. 

Little Kindnesses (/o»> . . . . 562 
On the Reception of Wordsworth 
atOxford 562 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 

b. Paisley, Scotland, June ."i, 1774. 
d. Lancashire, Eng., May 17, 1810. 

The Flower o' Dumblane . . . 563 
The Midges Dance aboon the 
Burn 563 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. 

b. Kennctt Square, Penn., Jan. II, 1J>2J. 
d. Berlin, Dec. 19, 1S7S. 

A Funeral Thought 565 

Before the Bridal 566 

In the Meadows 566 

On the Headland .564 

Proposal 565 

Squandered Lives 566 

The Father 564 

The Lost May 56T 

The Mystery 507 

The Song of the Camp .... 568 

To a Bavarian Uirl 569 

Wind and Sea 565 

TAYLOR, SIR HENRY, 
b. Durham, Eng., 1800. 

Love Reluctant to Endanger its 

Object (Philip Van Artevelde) 570 
Nature's Need '' " 571 

Relaxation '" " 571 

The Mystery of Life " " 570 

Unknown Greatness " " 596 

What Makes a Hero ? .... 571 
When Joys are Keenest {PMlip 
Van Arteviikh) 571 

TAYLOR, JANE. 

b. London, Sept. 23, 1783. 

d. Ongar, Essexshire, April 2, 1824. 

The Squire's Pew . , . . . .572 

TENNYSON, ALFRED. 

b. Sotnersby, Lincolnshire, Eng., 1809. 

Ask me no More (The Princess) .'578 

A Welcome to Alexandra . . . 582 

Break, Break. Break .... 584 

Bugle Song (jT/fe PWjice.ss) . . 577 

Charge of the Light Brigade . 584 

Circumstance 585 

Come not when I am Dead . . 585 
Condition of Spiritual Commu- 
nion {In Memoriam) .... 574 
Couplets from I.,oeksley Hall . 573 
Cradle Song { 77(6 PriJice.f.s) . . 578 
Faith in Doubt (In Memoriam) . 575 
For his Child's Sake (The Prin- 
cess) 577 



Garden Song (Mand) .... 580 

Go not, Happy Day (Maud) . . 581 

Hope for All (In Memoriam) . . 571 
Husband to Wife (The Miller's 

DaiKihter) 579 

Lady Clara ^'ere de Vere . . . 583 

Love (Tlic Miller's Daughter) . 579 

Man and Woman ( The Princess) 578 

Move Eastward, Happv Earth . 585 
Not at All, or All in AH (Merlin 

and Virien) 580 

Now Lies the Earth ( The Prin- 
cess) 578 

Reconciliation ( The Princess) . 577 
Ring out, Wild Bells (In Memo- 
riam) 576 

Soul to Soul (/?!. il/e»?on'ffTO) . . 575 
Strong Son of God {In Memwiam) 574 
Tears, Idle Tears (The Priticess) 577 
The Death of the Old Year . . 582 
The Nuns' Song (Guinevere) . . 581 
The Tears of Heaven .... 585 
To a Friend in Heaven (In Me- 
moriam) 576 

"What I would be (The Miller's 

Daughter) 579 

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 

b. Calcutta, E. I., 1811. 
d. London, Dec. 24, ISfJS. 

At the Church-gate 585 

Little Billee 783 

Sorrows of Werther . . . . , . 783 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse . 782 

THAXTER, CELIA. 

b. Portsmouth, N. IL, 1835. 

A Mussel Shell 587 

Beethoven 590 

Courage 589 

Discontent 586 

Farewell 586 

In the Kittery Churchyard . . 589 

Love shall Save us All .... .588 

Reverie •"i87 

The Sandpiper •")91 

The Sunrise never Failed us yet .587 

To a Violin • . .588 

THOMAS, EDITH M. 
b. Litchfield, Ohio, 1854. 

Flower and Fruit 853 

THOMPSON, MAURICE. 

b. Fairfield, Indiana, Sept. 9, 1844. 

Before Dawn J<54 

The ISIorning Hills 853 

THOMSON, JAMES. 

b. Ednam, Roxburghshire, Scotland, Sept. 11, 
1700. d. New Lane, near Richmond, Eng., 
Aug. 27, 1748. 

A State's Need of Virtue (Lib- 

erty) •''^■^ 

Bird's, and their Loves CT/fc Sea- 
sons) 59.3 

Contentment 5J( 

Death amid the Snows (The 

Seasons) 593 



Iviii 



INDEX OF AUTHOR ti AND TITLES. 



Excess to be Avoided ( The Cas- 
tle of hulolence) 596 

Harvest Time ( The Sensnns) . . 592 
Health Necessary to Happy Life 

( 'J'he Castle of Indolence) . . 597 
Independence (Liberty) . . . 594 
Nature's Joy Inalienable ( 77/e 

Castle of Indolence) .... 596 
Pure and' Happy Love {The Sea- 
sons) 591 

Kepose ( The Castle of Indolence) 595 

Kule, Britannia . * 597 

The Apollo, and Venus of Me<li- 

ci {Libert ii) 595 

The Folly of Hoarding ( The Cas- 
tle of indolence) 596 

The State of the World had Men 
J.ived at Ease {The Castle of 

Indolence) ".596 

The Tempest {The Seasons) . . 591 
The Zeal of Persecution {Liberty) 595 

THRALE, HESTER L. (Piozzi). 
b. Wales, 1740. d. 18:21. 

The Three Warnings .... 784 

TICKNOR, FRANK O. 

, Gray 854 

Little (iitfen SS-i 



TILTON, THEODORE. 

b. New York, N. Y., Oct. 2, W.).i. 
Love in Age {Tltou and I) . 

Recompense 

Sir Marniaduke's Musings 
The Four Seasons .... 
The Two Ladders .... 
Under the Sod {Thou and I) 



598 
601 
601 
600 
602 
599 



855 
855 
855 



TIMROD, HENRY. 

A Common Thought . . . 
Decoration Ode .... 
Hark to the Shouting Wind 



TRENCH RICHARD CHENEVIX. 
b. Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 9, 1807. 

Falling Stars 606 

Happiness in Little Things of 

the Present 605 

Harinosan ■ 606 

Lord, many Times I am Aweary 603 

Patience ". 604 

Sadness born of Beauty . . . 603 

The Bees 605 

The Diamond 606 

The Ermine 605 

The Lent Jewels 604 

The Niglitingale 605 

The Snake 605 

The Tiger 605 

Three Sonnets on Prayer . . . 602 
Weak Consolation {Lines to a 

Friend) 603 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. 

b. Ogden. N. Y., Sept. .s, 1S27. 

Darius Green 788 

IVlidsuuimer 609 



Midwinter 608 

My Comrade and I 613 

Real Estate 610 

Stanzas from " Service "... 612 

The Name in the Bark .... 607 

The Old Man of the Mountain . 611 

The Restored Picture .... 60x 

The Vagabonds 78^ 

TUPPER, MARTIN FARQUHAR. 

b. London, Eng., July 17, 1810. 

Argwwiewt {Indirect InHnences) . 617 
Foreknowledge Undesirable 

(Mystery) 620 

Hints on Pre-existence {Memory) 619 
Ill-chosen Pursuits {Self-Ac- 
quaintance) 614 

Ill-christened {Names) .... 618 
Late ^'aluation (Neylect) . . . 620 

Letters ( Writiny) 615 

Life {To-day) 620 

Mental Supremacy (/Jert?<^//1 . . 616 
Procrastination (7'o-morrojt') . . 621 
Spiritual Feelers {Truth in 

Thinys False) 615 

The Conqueror {Beauty) . . . 616 
The Dignity and Patience of 

Genius {Fame) 615 

The Force of Trifles {Indirect 

Influences) 619 

The Po\\er of Suggestion (Indi- 
rect Inflvences) 617 

The Source of Man's Ruling Pas- 
sion (lieduty) 616 

The Word of Bane and Blessing 

(To-morrow) 620 

To Murmurers (Ae^/ccO ... 619 

VAUGHAN, HENRY. 

b. Newton, St. Bridget. South Wales, Eng., 1G2I 
d. Newton, April 2% 1C!)3. 

From "Childhood" 622 

From " Rules and Lessons " . . 624 

From " St. Mary Magdalen " . 622 

From the " Christian Politician " 623 

Like as a Nurse 626 

Peace 622 

Providence 623 

Sundays 624 

The Pursuit 622 

The .Seed Growing Secretly . . 621 

The Shower 621 

They are all Gone 621 

To his Books 626 

VERY, JONES. 

b. Salem, Mass., Aug. 28, 1813. 
d. tSSI). 

Home and Heaven 627 

Nature 627 

The World 627 

WALLER, EDMUND. 

b. Colcshill. En"., Martii 3. ICO.? or 1006. 
d. Beaconsfield, Eng., Oct. 21, 1U87. 

Old Age and Death 628 

On a Girdle 628 

The Rose 628 




INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



WATTS, ISAAC. 

b. Southampton, Eng., July 14, 1674. 

d. Theobalds, Newiuglon, Eng., Nov. 25, 1748. 

Insignificant Existence .... 855 
Lord, when I quit this Earthly- 
Stage 856 

The Heavenly Canaan .... 856 

WEBSTER, AUGUSTA. 

b. England, 1841. 

From " A Preacher " .... 629 

On the Lake 631 

The Artist's Dread of Blindness 

{A Painter) 630 

The Gift 631 

Two Maidens 631 

WELBY, AMELIA B. 

1). St. Nk-hoias, Ind., Feb. 3, 1819 
d. Louisville, Ky., May 3, 1852. 

Twilight at Sea 856 

WESLEY, CHARLES. 

b. Epworth, Lincolnshire, Eng., Dec. IS, 17()S. 
d. London, March 29, 1788. 

Come, let us Anew 633 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul . . . 632 
Stanzas from "The True Use of 

Music " 632 

The Only Light 632 

WHEELER, ELLA. 

Secrets 633 

WHITE, BLANCO. 

h. Seville, Spain, July 11, 1775. 
d. Liverpool, Eng., May 20, 1841. 

To Night 



WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. 

b. Nottingham, Eng., March 21, 1785. 
d. Cambridge, Eng., Oct. la, 1800. 

A Little before Death .... 
Ode to Disappointment .... 

Solitude 

The Stanzas added to Waller's 

"Rose" 

To an Early Primrose .... 
To Misfortune 

WHITIVIAN, SARAH HELEN. 



631 



636 
635 
634 

636 
631 
636 



b. Providence. R. I., 1803. 
d. June 27, 1S7S. 



The Last Flowers .... 
Sonnets to Edgar Allan Poe. 



85T 
856 



WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T. 
b. Boston, 1824. 

Behind the Mask 6.37 

Equinoctial 636 

Hearth-glow 638 

I will Abide in Thine House . . 638 

Larvse 638 

Sunlight and Starlight .... 6.38 

The Three Lights 637 

WHITTIER, ELIZABETH HUSSEY. 

b. Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 7, 1815. 
d. Amesbury, Mass., Sept. 3, 181J4. 

Charity 639 



WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. 

b. Haverhill, Mass, Dec. 17, 1807. 

Barbara Frietchie 642 

In School-days 640 

Maud Muller 643 

My Playmate 649 

My Psalm 641 

Nature's Reverence {Tent on the 

Beach) 645 

The Barefoot Boy 639 

The Pressed Gentian 646 

Universal Salvation {Tent on the 

Beach) 645 

WILDE, OSCAR. 

Easter-day 647 

Impressions du Matin .... 648 

Madonna Mia 648 

Requiescat 648 

Silhouettes 648 

Sonnet 648 

Sunrise 648 

WILDE, RICHARD HENRY 

b. Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 24. 1789. 
d. New Orleans, Sept. 10, 1847. 

iSIy Life is like the Summer 

Rose 649 

To the Mocking Bird .... 649 

WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA 

b. near Berwick. Eng., 17C2. 
d. Paris, Dec., 1827. 

Sonnet to Hope .... 
Whilst Thee I Seek . . . 



650 
650 



WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 

b. Portland, Me.. Jan. 20, 1807. 

d. Idlewild, N. Y., Jan. 20, 1807. 

From " Absalom " 651 

On the Picture of a Child Tired 

of Play 651 

Saturday Afternoon 651 

The Belfry Pigeon 653 

The Burial of the Champion of 

his Class 652 

To a City Pigeon 650 

ToGiuliaGrisi 653 

Unseen Spirits . , 653 

WILLSON, FORCE YTHE. 

b. Little Genesee, N. Y., 1837. 
d. 1807. 

The Old Sergeant 655 

WILSON, JOHN (Christopher North), 
b. Paislev, Scotland, Mav 18, 1785. 
d. Edinburgh, April .3, 1854. 

The Evening Cloud 657 

The Shipwreck {Isle of Palms) . 657 
WINTER, WILLIAM. 

b. Gloucester, Mass., July 15, 1S3G. 

A Dirge 661 

After All . . .' 659 

Homage 659 

The Golden Silence 661 

The Question 660 

The White Flag 658 

Withered Roses 660 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



WITHER, GEORGE. 

b. Brentworth, Eng. June 11, 1588. 

d. Londun, May 2, W\7. 

For a Servant 663 

For a Widower or Widow . . . 662 

From " Poverty " 662 

Hymn for Anniversary Marriage 
Days 662 

WOLCOT, JOHN (Peter Pindar), 
b. Dodbrooke, Dcvonsliire, Eiig., 17.38. 
d. Somers Town, London, Jan. 13, I8U. 

To my Candle 664 

The Pilgrims and the Peas . . 792 
The Razorseller 792 

WOLFE, CHARLES. 

b. Dublin, Ireland, Dec. 14, l"ill. 

d. Cove of Cork, now Queenstown, Feb, 21, 182.3. 

Burial of Sir John Moore . . . 665 

Go, Forget Me 665 

To Mary 664 

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. 

b. Scituate, Mass., Jan. 13, 1785. 
d. New York, Dee. 9, 1842. 

The Old Oaken Bucket .... 666 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 

b. Coekermouth, Eng., April 7, 1770. 
d. Kydal Mount, April 2-3, 1850. 

Apostrophe to the Poet's Sister 
(Liiua composed a few miles 

from Tintcni Abbey) .... 667 

Evening 675 

From " Intimations of Immoi'- 

tality" 6.50 

Lucy 672 

Scorn not the Sonnet .... 675 

She was a Phantom of Delight . 674 

The Daffodils 671 

The Deaf Dalesman {Exctirsion) 669 

The Prop of Faith " 668 
The Solace of Nature (Lines 
composed a feiv miles aboi-e 

Tintern Abbey) 666 

The World is too much with 

us 675 

Thy Art he Nature 674 

To a Distant Friend 672 

To a Skylark 673 

To a Young Lady 671 

To Sleep ,672 

To the Cuckoo 676 

Twilight 672 

Undeveloped Genius (Excursion) 668 

We are Seven 673 

Westminster Bridge 675 



WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 

b. Bocton (or Boughton Hall), Kent, Eng., 
March 31, 1528. d. Eton, Dec, 1639. 
A Happy Life 676 

WYATT, SIR THOMAS. 

b. Alington Castle, Kent., Eng., 1503. 

d. Sherborne, Eng., Oct. 11, 1542.. 

A Lover's Prayer 677 

Description of the One he would 

Love 677 

Pleasure mixed with Pain . 677 

YOUNG, EDWARD. 

b. Upham, Hampshire, Eng., 1C84. 

d. Weliwyn, Hertfordshire, April 12, 17G5. 

All Change ; no Death (Xu/ht 

Thoiifihts) Vl. 683 

Ambition {Xight Thouc/hfs) Yll. 683 
Cheerfulness in Misfortune 

(Mgjit Thoufihfs) ... IX. 684 
Conscience (A(V//(/ 7' /ion r/hts) II. 678 
Cruelty (M(/ht'T/iou(/hts) . III. 681 
Ditferent Sources of Funeral 

Tears {Niqlit Thouqh/s) . V. 682 
Effect of Contact with the World 

(Niglif Thomihts) ... II. 679 
Effort, the (iaujje of (ireatness 

(Nieiht Tkoiiiihts) . . . II. 680 
False Terrors in view of Death 

(Xiqlit Thoughts) . . . IV. 682 
Insutticiency of the World 

(Myhf Thoughts) ... II. 680 
Joy to be Shared (Night 

Thoughts) II. 678 

Power of the World (Niqht 

Thoughts) V. 683 

Procrastination, and Forgetful- 

ness of Death (Night 

Thoughts) I. 677 

The Crowning Disappointment 

(Night Thoughts) ... 11. 679 
The End of the Virtuous (Niqht 

Thonqhts) "IL 680 

The Glory of Death (Niqht 

Thouqhts) HI. 681 

The other Life the End of This 

(Night Thoughts) . . . III. 681 
The World a Grave (Niqht 

Thoughts) IX. 684 

Time, its Use and Misuse (Night 

Thoughts) II. 678 

Virtue," the Measure of Years 

(Niqht Thoughts) ... V. 683 
Wisdom (A'j(7/(< Thoughts) VIII. 684 

YOUNG, WILLIAM. 

b. Monmouth, Ills., 1847. 

The Horseman (From The Cen- 
tury) , 858 



Henry Abbey. 



THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY. 

A TKAVELLEK across the desert 
Avaste 
Found on his way a cool, pahn- 
shaded spring, 

And the fresh water seemed to his 
pleased taste. 
In the known world, the most de- 
licious thing. 

" Great is the caliph!" said he; "I 
for him 

Will fill my leathern hottle to the 
brim." 

He sank the bottle, forcing it to drink 
Until the gurgle ceased in its lank 

throat ; 
And as he started onward, smiled to 

think 
That he for thirst bore God's sole 

antidote. 
Days after, with obeisance low and 

meet, 
He laid his present at the caliph's feet. 

Forthwith the issue of the spring was 
poured 
Into a cup, on wliose embossed 
outside, 

Jewels, like solid water, shaped a 
gourd. 
The caliph drank, and seemed well 
satisfied, 

Nay, wisely pleased, and straightway 
gave connnand 

To line with gold the man's work- 
hardened hand. 

The courtiers, looking at the round 
reward. 
Fancied that some unheard-of vir- 
tue graced 



The bottled burden borne for their 

loved lord, 
And of the liquid gift asked but to 

taste. 
The caliph answered from his potent 

throne : 
" Touch not the water; it is mine 

alone!" 

But soon — after the humble giver 
went. 
O'erflowing with delight, wliich 
bathed his face — 

The caliph told his courtiers the 
intent 
Of Ills denial, saying: " It is base 

Not to accept a kindness when ex- 
pressed 

By no low motive of self-interest. 

" Tlie water was a gift of love to me, 
Wliich I with golden gratitude re- 
paid. 

I would not let the honest giver see 
That, on its way, the crystal of tlie 
shade 

Had changed, and was impure; for 
so, no less. 

His love, thus scorned, had turned to 
bitterness. 

" I granted not the warm, distasteful 
draught 
To asking lips, because of firm mis- 
trust. 

Or kindly fear, that, if another 
quaffed. 
He would reveal his feeling of dis- 
gust. 

And he, who meant a favor, would 
depart. 

Bearing a wovmded and dejected 
heart." 



^M 



MAY IN KINGSTON. 

Our old colonial town is new with 

May: 
The loving trees that clasp across 

the streets, 
Grow greener sleeved with bursting 

buds each day. 
Still this year's May the last year's 

ISIay repeats ; 
Even the old stone houses half renew 
Their youth and beauty, as the old 

trees do. 

High over all, like some divine de- 
sire 
Above our lower thoughts of daily 
care, 

The gray, religious, heaven-touching 
spire 
Adds to the quiet of the spring- 
time air; 

And over roofs the birds create a sea. 

That has no shore, of their May 
melody. 

Down through the lowlands now of 
lightest green, 
The undecided creek winds on its 
way. 

There the lithe willow bends with 
graceful mien. 
And sees its likeness in the depths 
all day; 

While in the orchards, flushed with 
May's warm light, 

The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, at- 
tired in white. 

But yonder loom the mountains old 
and grand. 
That off. along dim distance, reach 
afar, 

And high and vast, against the sun- 
set stand, 
A dreamy range, long and irreg- 
ular — 

A caravan that never passes by, 

Whose camel-backs are laden Mith 
the sky. 

So, like a caravan, our outlived years 
Loom on the introspective land- 
scape seen 



Within the heart : ' and now, when 

^lay appears. 
And earth renews its vernal bloom 

and green. 
We but renew our longing, and we 

say: 
"Oh, would that life might ever be 

all May! 

" Would that the bloom of youth 

which is so brief. 
The bloom, the May, the fullness 

ripe and fair 
Of cheek and limb, might fade not 

as the leaf; 
Would that the heart might not 

grow old with care, 
Nor love turn bitter, nor fond hope 

decay ; 
But soul and body lead a life of 

May!" 



FACIE BAT. 

As thoughts possess the fashion of 
the mood 
That gave them birth, so eveiy 
deed we do 
Partakes of our inborn disquietude 
Which spurns the old and reaches 
!■ toM'ard the new. 
The noblest works of human art and 

pride 
Show that their makers were not 
satisfied. 



For, looking down the ladder of our 
deeds. 
The roiuids seem slender; all past 
work appears 

Unto the doer faulty; the heart 
bleeds. 
And pale Regret comes weltering 
in tears. 

To think how poor our best has been, 
liow vain. 

Beside the excellence we would at- 
tain. 



9h 



ADAMS — ADDISON. 



Sarah Flower Adams. 



NEARER. MY GOD, TO THEE. 

Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee : 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me, 
Still all my song shall be. 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee. 



Though like a wanderer, 
Daylight all gone. 

Darkness be over me, 
My i-est a stone, 

Yet in my dreams, I'd be 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee. 

There let the way appear 
Steps up to heaven ; 



All that thou sendest me 

In mercy given. 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee. 

Then with my waking thoughts, 
Bright with thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs. 
Bethel I'll raise; 

So by my woes to be 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee. 



Or if on joyful Aving, 
Cleaving the sky, 

Sun, moon, and stars for" 
Upward I fly, 

Still all my song shall be. 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee. 



ot 



Joseph Addison. 



APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY. 



O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly 
bright. 

Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with 
delight ! 

Eternal pleasures in thy presence 
reign, 

And smiling plenty leads thy wanton 
train ; 

Eased of her load, subjection grows 
more light. 

And ]iovertv looks cheerful in thy 
sight:" 

Thou mak'st the gloomy face of na- 
ture gay. 

Glv'st beauty to the sun, and pleas- 
ure to the day. 
Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's 
isle adores; 

How has she oft exhausted all her 
stores. 



How oft in fields of death thy pres- 
ence sought. 
Nor thinks the mightj' prize too 

dearly bought! 
On foreign mountains may the sim 

refine 
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it 

to wine; 
With citron groves adorn a distant 

soil. 
And the fat olive swell with floods of 

oil: 
We envy not the wanner clime, that 

lies 
In ten degrees of more indulgent 

skies; 
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven 

repine, 
Thougli o'er our heads the frozen 

Pleiads shine: 
'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's 

isle. 
And makes her barren rocks and her 

bleak mountains smile. 



AKENSIDE. 



CATO-S SOLILOQUV. 

It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st 

well ! — 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this 

fond desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or whence this secret dread, and in- 

A\ard horror, 
Of falling into nought ? why shrinks 

the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at 

destruction? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an 

hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful 

thought ! 
Through what variety of untried 

being, 
Through what new scenes and 

changes must we pass ? 
The wide, tW unbounded prospect 

lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness 

rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power 

above us — 
And tliat there is, all nature cries 

aloud 
Through all her works — he must 

delight in virtue; 
And that which he delights in must 

be happy. 
But when ? or where ? This world 

was made for C'a?sar. 
I'm weary of conjectures. This 

must end them. 
[Lai/hiy his Itand on Jiis sivord.] 



Thus am I doubly armed : my death 

and life. 
My bane and antidote, are both 

before me: 
This in a moment brings me to an 

end ; 
But this informs me I shall never 

die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, 

smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its 

point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun 

himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink 

in yeai-s ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal 

youth, 
Unhurt amidst the wars of ele- 
ments. 
The wreck of matter, and the crush 

of worlds. 
What means this heaviness that 

hangs upon me? 
This lethargy that creeps through all 

my senses ? 
Nature oppressed, and harassed out 

with care. 
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll 

favor her, 
That my awakened soul may take 

her flight. 
Renewed in all her strength, and 

fresh with life. 
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt 

or fear 
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows nei- 
ther of them; 
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or 

die. 



Mark Akenside. 



ox A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 

Come then, tell me, sage divine, 

Is it an offence to own 
That our bosoms e'er incline 

Toward innnortal Glory's throne? 



For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
Bourbon' s might, Braganza' s treasure, 
So can fancy's dream rejoice, 
So conciliate reason's choice. 
As one approving word of her impar- 
tial voice. 



AKENSWE. 



If to spiu'ii at noble praise 

Be the passport to thy heaven, 
Follow thou those gloomy ways — 

No such law to nie was given ; 
Nor, I trust, shall 1 deplore me, 
Faring like my friends before me; 
Nor an holier place desire 
Than Timoleon's arms acquire. 
And Tully's curule chair, and Mil- 
ton's golden lyre. 



[From Pleasnres of the fmaglnation.] 

THE DEVELOPMENT OF POETIC 
AND ARTISTIC CREATIONS. 

By these mysterious ties, the busy 

power 
Of memory her ideal train preserves 
Entire; or when they would elude 

her watch. 
Reclaims their fleeting footsteps 

from the waste 
Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all 
The various forms of being, to present 
Before the curious eye of mimic art 
Their largest choice: like Spring's 

unfolded blooms 
Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful 

bee 
May taste at will from their selected 

spoils 
To work her dulcet food. For not 

the expanse 
Of living lakes in summer's noontide 

calm. 
Reflects the bordering shade and sun- 
bright heavens 
With fairer semblance; not the 

sculptured gold 
More faithful keeps the graver's 

lively trace. 
Than he whose birth the sister- 
powers of art 
Propitious viewed, and from his 

genial star 
Shed influence to the seeds of fancy 

kind. 
Than his attempered bosom must 

preserve 
The seal of nature. There alone, 

unchanged 



Her form remains. The balmy walks 

of May 
There breathe perennial sweets: the 

trembling chord 
Resounds forever in the abstracted 

ear. 
Melodious; and the virgin's radiant 

eye, 
.Superior to disease, to grief, and time, 
Shines with unbatlng lustre. Thus 

at length 
Endowed with all that nature can 

bestow. 
The child of fancy oft in silence 

bends 
O'er these mixed treasiu'es of his 

pregnant breast 
With conscious pride. From them 

he oft resolves 
To frame he knows not what excel- 
ling things. 
And win he knows not what sublime 

leward 
Of praise and wonder. By degrees 

the mind 
Feels her young nerves dilate: the 

plastic powers 
Labor for action: blind emotions 

heave 
His bosom ; and with loveliest frenzy 

caught. 
From earth to heaven he rolls his 

daring eye. 
From heaven to earth. Anon ten 

thousand shapes, 
Like spectres trooping to the wiz- 
ard's call. 
Flit swift before him. From the 

womb of earth. 
From ocean's bed they come: the 

eternal heavens 
Disclose their splendors, and the 

dark abyss 
Pours out her births unknown. 

With fixed gaze 
He marks the rising phantoms. Now 

compares 
Their different forms; now blends 

them, now divides; 
Enlarges and extenuates by turns; 
Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands. 
And infinitely varies. Hither now. 
Now thither fluctuates his inconstant 

aim, 



6 



AKENSIDE. 



With endless choice perplexed. At 
length his plan 

Begins to open. Lucid order dawns ; 

And as from Chaos old the jarring 
seeds 

Of nature at the voice divine repaired 

Each to its place, till rosy earth un- 
veiled 

Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful 
sun 

Sprung up the blue serene ; by swift 
degrees 

Thus disentangled, his entire design 

Emerges. Colors mingle, features 
join. 

And lines converge : the fainter parts 
retire; 

The fairer eminent in light advance ; 

And every image on its neighbor 
smiles. 

Awhile he stands, and with a father's 
joy 

Contemplates. Then with Prome- 
thean art 

Into its proper vehicle he breathes 

The fair conception which, embodied 
thus. 

And permanent, becomes to eyes or 
ears 

An object ascertained: while thus 
informed. 

The various objects of his mimic 
skill, 

The consonance of sounds, the feat- 
ured rock. 

The shadowy picture, and impas- 
sioned verse, 

Beyond their proper powers attract 
the soul 

By that expressive semblance, while 
in sight 

Of nature's great original we scan 

The lively child of art; while line by 
line. 

And feature after feature, Ave refer 

To that divine exemplar whence it 
stole 

Those animating charms. Thus 

beauty's pahii 
Betwixt them wavering hangs: ap- 
plauding love 

Doubts where "to choose ; and mortal 

man aspires 
To tempt creative praise. 



[From Pleasures of the Imagination.] 

HI CHE S OF A MAX OF TASTE. 

What though not all 
Of mortal offspring can attain the 

heights ■ 
Of envied life ; though only few pos- 
sess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state; 
Yet nature's care, to all her children 

just. 
With richer treasures and an ampler 

state, 
Endows, at large, what ever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the 

city's pomp, 
The rural honors his. Whate'er 

adorns 
The princely dome, the column and 

the arch. 
The breathing marbles and the 

sculptured gold. 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow 

claim. 
His timeful breast enjoys. For him, 

the Spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken 

gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the 

hand 
Of Autumn tinges every fertile 

branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like 

the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from 

her wings; 
And still new beauties meet his 

lonely walk. 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a 

breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud 

imbibes 
The setting sun's effulgence, not a 

strain 
From all the tenants of the warbling 

shade 
Ascends, but whence his bosom can 

partake 
Fresli pleasure unreproved. Xor 

thence partakes 
Fresh pleasure only : for th' attentive 

mind. 
By this harmonious action on her 

powers, 




AKENSIDE. 



Becomes herself harmonious: wont 
so oft 

In outward things to meditate the 
charm 

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at 
home 

To find a kindred order to exert 

Within herself this elegance of love, 

This fair inspired delight: her tem- 
per' d powers 

Refine at length, and every passion 
wears 

A chaster, milder, more attractive 
mien. 



[From Pleasures of the lmaginatio7i.] 
MENTAL BEAUTY. 

Thus doth beauty dwell 

There most conspicuous, e'en in out- 
ward shape, 

Where dawns the high expression of 
a mind : 

By steps conducting our enraptured 
searJSa 

To that eternal origin, whose power, 

Through all th' unbounded symme- 
try of things. 

Like rays effulging from the parent 
sun. 

This endless mixture of her charms 
diffused. 

Mind, mind alone, — bear witness, 
earth and heaven! — 

The living fountains in itself con- 
tains 

Of beauteous and sublime : here, hand 
in hand. 

Sit paramount the graces; here en- 
throned, 

Celestial Venus, with divinest airs. 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 



[From Pleasures of the Imagination.'] 

ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE INFI- 
NITE. 

Say, why was man so eminently 

raised 
Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd 
Through life and death to dart his 

piercing eye. 



With thoughts beyond the limit of 

his frame; 
But that th' Omnipotent might send 

him forth 
In sight of mortal and immortal 

powers. 
As on a boundless theatre, to run 
The great career of justice ; to exalt 
His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 
To chase each partial purpose from 

his breast. 
And through the mists of passion and 

of sense. 
And through the tossing tide of 

chance and pain. 
To hold his course unfaltering, while 

the voice 
Of truth and virtue, up the steep 

ascent 
Of nature, calls him to his high re- 
ward, 
Th' applauding smile of heaven ? 

Else wherefore burns 
In mortal bosoms this unquenched 

hope, 
That breathes from day to day sub- 

limer things, 
And mocks possession? wherefore 

darts the mind. 
With such resistless ardor, to embrace 
Majestic forms; impatient to be free; 
Spurning the gross control of wilful 

might; 
Proud of the strong contention of 

her toils; 
Proud to be daring ? 

For from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker 

said. 
That not in humble nor in brief de- 
light, 
Xot in the fading echoes of renown. 
Power's pvn-ple robes, nor Pleasure's 

flowery lap. 
The soul should find enjoyment: but 

from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Through all th' ascent of things en- 
large her view, 
Till eveiy bound at length should 

disappear. 
And infinite perfection close the 
scene. 




Lucy Evelina Akerman. 



NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 

" He found uothlng thereon but leaves." 
Matt. xxi. 19. 

Nothing but leaves; the spirit 
grieves 
Over the wasted Ufe: 
Sin committed while conscience slept, 
Promises made but never kept, 
Hatred, battle, strife; 
Nothing but leaves ! 

Nothing but leaves; no garner' d 

sheaves 
Of life's fair, ripen'd grain; 
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; 
We sow our seeds — lo! tares and 

weeds ; 



We reap with toil and pain 
Nothing but leaves ! 

Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves 

No veil to screen the past : 
As we retrace our weaiy way. 
Counting each lost and misspent 
day — 
We find, sadly, at last, 
Nothing but leaves! 

And shall we meet the Master so. 

Bearing our wither' d leaves ? 
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, — 
We stand before him, humbled, 
mute ; 
AVaiting the words he breathes, — 
"Nothing but leaves!" 



James Aldrich. 

A DEATH-BED. 



Hek suffering ended with the day; 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night 
away. 

In statue-like repose. 



But when the sun, in all his state. 
Illumed the eastern skies. 

She passed through Glory's morning- 
gate. 
And walked in Paradise ! 



Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL. 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Babie Bell 

Into this world of ours? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar: 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hmig in the glistening depths of 
even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O'er which the Avhite- winged Angels 



go, 
Bearinr 



the holy Dead to heaven. 



She touched a bridge of flowers, — 
those feet 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels ! 
They fell like dew upon the flowers. 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet ! 
And thus came dainty Babie Bell 
Into this world of ours. 

She came and brought delicious May, 
The swallows built beneath the 

eaves ; 
Like sunlight in and out the 
leaves, 
The robins went the livelong dav: 



ALDRK'H. 



9 



The lily swimg its noiseless bell, 

And o'er the porch the trembling 

vine 
Seemed bursting with its veins of 
wine. 

How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 

O, earth was full of singing-birds, 

And opening spring-tide flowers, 

When the dainty Babie Bell 

Came to this world of ours ! 

O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, 
How fair she gre\\' from day to day! 

What woman-nature tilled her eyes, 
What poetry witliin them lay: 

Those deep and tender twilight 
eyes, 
So full of meaning, pure and 

bright 
As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more ; 
Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely born. 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen, — 

The land beyond the morn. 
And for the love of those deai' eyes, 
For love of her whom God led forth, 
(The mother's being ceased on eacth 
When Babie came from Paradise, ) — 
For love of Him who smote our lives. 
And woke the chords of joy and 
pain. 
We said. Dear Christ! — Our hearts 
bent down 
Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were 

white 
And red with blossoms when she 

came, 
Were rich in autumn's mellow 

prime : 
The clustered apples burnt like 

flame. 
The soft-cheeked i:)eaches blushed 

and fell, 
The ivoiy chestnut burst its shell, 
The grapes hung purpling in the 

grange : 
And time wrought just as rich a 

change 

In little Babie Bell. 



Her lissome form more perfect grew. 
And in her features we could 

trace. 
In softened curves, her mother's 
face! 
Her angel-nature ripened too. 
We thought her lovely when she 
came. 
But she was holy, saintly now; 
Around her pale angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame ! 

God's hand had taken away the seal, 
That held the portals of her speech ; 
And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our 
reach. 
She never was a child to us, 
W^e never held her being's key; 
Tl'e could not teach herholy things : 
She was Christ's self in piu'ity. 

It came upon us by degrees : 

We saw its shadow ere it fell. 

The knowledge that om- God had sent 

His messenger for Babie Bell. 

We shuddered with unlanguaged 

pain. 
And all our hopes were changed to 

fears. 
And all our thoughts ran into tears 
Like sunshine into rain. 
We cried aloud in our belief, 
'• O, smite us gently, gently, God! 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved hei', God can tell; 
Her heart ^^•as folded deep in ours. 
Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell ! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands ; 
And what did'dainty Babie Bell ? 

She only crossed her little hands. 
She only looked more meek and 

fair! 
We parted back her silken hair : 
We wove the roses round her brow. 
White buds, the summer's drifted 

snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flow- 
ers! 
And thus went dainty Babie Bell 
Out of this world of ours! 



10 



ALDBICH. 



DE.sriXY. 

TiiriEE roses, wan as moonlight and 

weighed down 
Each with its loveUness as with a 

crown, 
Drooped in a florist's window in a 

town. 

Tlie first a lover bought. It lay at 

rest, 
Like flower on flower, that night, on 

Beauty's breast. 

The second rose, as virginal and fair, 
tShrunk in the tangles of a harlot's 
hair. 

The third, a widow, with new grief 

made wild. 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead 

child. 



A2^ UNTIMELY THOUGHT. 

I woxDER what day of the week — 
I wonder what month of the year — 
Will it be midnight, or morning. 
And who will bend over my bier ? 

— What a hideous fancy to come 
As I wait, at the foot of the stair. 
While Lilian gives the last touch 
To her robe, or the rose in her hair. 

Do I like your new dress — pompa- 
dour ? 

And do I like you ? On my life. 

You are eighteen, and not a day 
more. 

And have not been six years my wife. 

Those two rosy boys in the crib 
Up stairs are not ours, to be sure ! — 
You are just a sweet bride in her 

bloom. 
All sunshine, and snowy, and pure. 

As the carriage rolls down the dark 

street 
The little wife laughs and makes 

cheer ; 



But ... I wonder what day of the 

week, 
I wonder what month of the year. 



NAMELESS PAIX. 

In my nostrils the summer wind 
Blows the exquisite scent of the rose I 
(J for the golden, golden wind. 
Breaking the buds as it goes. 
Breaking the buds, and bending the 

grass. 
And spilling the scent of the rose! 

wind of the summer morn. 
Tearing the petals in twain. 
Wafting the fragrant soid 

Of the rose through valley and plain, 

1 would you could tear my heart to- 

day. 
And scatter its nameless pain. 



UXSUNG. 

As sweet as the breath that goes 
From the lips of the white rose, 
As weird as the elfin lights 
That glimmer of fi'osty nights. 
As wild as the winds that tear 
The curled red leaf in the air. 
Is the song I have never sung. 

In slumber, a himdred times 

I have said the mystic rhymes, 

But ere I open my eyes 

This ghost of a poem flies ; 

Of the interfluent strains 

Not even a note remains: 

I know by my pulses' beat 

It was something wild and sweet. 

And my heart is strangely stirred 

By an imremembered word ! 

I strive, but I strive in vain, 
To recall the lost refrain. 
On some miraculous day 
Perhaps it will come and stay; 
In some unimagined Spring 
1 may find my voice, and sing 
The song I have never sung. 







ALDBICH. 



RENCONTRE. 

Toiling across the Mer de Glace 
I thought of, longed for thee ; 
What miles between us stretched, 

alas! 
What miles of land and sea ! 

My foe, undreamed of, at my side 
Stood siuUlenly, like Fate. 
For those who love, the world is wide. 
But not for those who hate. 



THE FADED VIOLET. 

What thought is folded in thy leaves ! 
What tender thought, what speech- 
less pain! 
I hold thy faded lips to mine, 
Thou darling of the April rain ! 

I hold thy faded lips to mine. 
Though scent and azure tint are fled — 

dry, mute lips! ye are the type 
Of something in me cold and dead ; 

Of something wilted like thy leaves; 
Of fragrance tlown, of beauty dim; 
Yet, for the love of those white hands. 
That found thee by a river's brim — 

That found thee when thy dewy 

mouth 
W^as purpled as with stains of wine — 
For love of her who love forgot, 

1 hold thy faded lips to mine. 

That thou shouldst live when I am 

dead. 
When hate is dead, for me, and 

wrong. 
For this, I use my subtlest art. 
For this, I fold thee in my song. 



AFTER THE RAIN. 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood; 
And on the church's dizzy vane 
The ancient cross is bathed in blood. 



From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-cai-ven, gray and high, 
A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye: 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A globe of gold, a disc, a speck: 
And in the belfry sits a dove 
With purple ripples on her neck. 




PURSUIT AND POSSESSION. 

When I behold what pleasure is Pur- 
suit, 
What life, what glorious eagerness 

it is; 
Then mark how full Possession falls 

from this. 
How fairer seems the blossom than 

the fruit — 
1 am perplext, and often stricken 

mute 
Wondering which attained the higher 

bliss. 
The winged insect, or the chrysalis 
It thrust aside with unreluctant foot. 
.Spirit of verse that still elud'st my 

art. 
Thou airy phantom that dost ever 

haunt me, 
O never, never rest upon my heart, 
if when I have thee I shall little want 

thee ! 
Still flit away in moonlight, rain, and 

dew. 
Will-o'-the-wisp, that I may still 

pursue ! 



SLEEP. 



When to soft Sleep we give ourselves 
away. 

And in a dream as in a fairy bark 

Drift on and on through the en- 
chanted dark 

To purple daybreak — little thought 
we pay 

To that sweet bitter world we know 
by day. 

We are clean quit of it, as is a lark 

So high in heaven no human eye may 
mark 






12 



ALDRICH — ALEXANDER. 



Tlie thin swift pinion cleaving 

llirougli the gray. 
Till we awake ill fate can do no ill 
The resting heart shall not take up 

again 
The heavy load that yet must make 

it bleed; 
For this brief space the loud world's 

voice is ^till, 
No faintest echo of it brings us pain. 
How will it be when we shall sleep 

indeed ? 



MASKS. 



Black Tragedy lets slip her grim dis- 
guise 

And shows you laughing lips and 
roguish eyes ; 

But when, unmasked, gay Comedy 
appears. 

How wan her cheeks are, and what 
heavy tears ! 



THE ROSE. 

Fixed to her necklace, like another 

gem, 
A rose she wore — the flower June 

made tor her: 



Fairer it looked than when upon the 

stem. 
And must, indeed, have been nuich 

happier. 



MAPLE LEAVES. 

October turned my maple's leaves to 

gold ; 
The most are gone now; here and 

there one lingers; 
Soon these will slip from out the 

twigs' weak hold, 
Like coins between a dying miser's 

fingers. 



TO AXY POET. 

Out of the thousand verses you have 

writ. 
If Time spare none, you M'ill not care 

at all ; 
If Time spare one, you will not know 

of it: 
Nor shame nor fame can scale a 

churchvard wall. 



Cecil Frances Alexander. 



THE BURIAL OF ^rOSES. 

" And lie buried liim in a valley in the 
land of ]\Ioab, over against Betli-peor; but 
no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto 
this day." 

By Nebo's lonely mountain. 

On this side Jordan's wave. 
In a vale in the land of Moab 

There lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows tliat sepulchre. 

And no man saw it e'er. 
For the angels of God upturned the 
sod 

And laid the dead man there. 



That was the grandest funeral 

That ever pass'd on earth; 
But no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth — 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done. 
And the crimson streak on ocean's 
cheek 

Grows into the great sun. 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her croMii of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Open their thousand leaves ; 

So without sound of music. 
Or voice of them that -wept. 



Silently down from the mountain's 
crown 
The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On grey Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his lonely eyrie 

LookM on tlie wondrous sight; 
Perchance the lion stalking, 

Still shuns tliat hallow'd spot. 
For beast and bird have seen and 
lieard 

That whicli man knowetli not. 

But when tlie warrior dieth, 

His comrades in tlie war, 
Witli arms reversed and nnitlied 
drum, 

Follow his funeral car; 
They show the banners taken, 

Tliey tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless 
steed. 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sage to rest. 
And give the bard an honor'd place, 

With costly marble di'est. 
In the great minster transept 

Where liglits like glories fall, 
And the organ rings, and tlie sweet 
choir sings 

Along the emblazon'd wall. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword. 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 



And never earth's philosopher 
Traced, with his golden pen, 

On the deathless page, truths half so 
sage 
As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor, — 

The hillside for a pall. 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers ^all. 
And the dark rock-pines like tossing 
plumes. 

Over liis bier to wave. 
And God's own hand, in that lonely 
land. 

To lay him in the grave '? 

In that strange grave without a 
name. 
Whence his uncoffin'd clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous 
thought! 
Before the .Judgment Day, 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won 
our life 
With the Incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave in Moab's land! 

O dark'^Beth-peor's hill! 
Speak to these curious hearts of 
ours. 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell ^ 
He hides them deep, like the hidden 
sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 



Henry 

THE AGED OAK AT OAKLEY. 

I AVAS a young fair tree ; 
Each spring -with quivering green 
My boughs were clad; and" far 
Down tile deep vale a light 
Shone from me on the eyes 
Of those who pass'd, — a light 



Alford. 

That told of sunny days. 
And blossoms, and blue sky; 
P"or I was ever first 
Of all the grove to hear 
The soft voice under ground 
Of the warm- working spring; 
And ere my bivthien stirr'd 
Their sheathed bud, the kine, 



mm 



14 



ALLEN. 



And the kine's keeper, came 


And scanty leafage serve 


Slow up the valley path. 


No high behest ; my name 


And laid them underneath 


Is sounded far and wide; 


My cool and rustling leaves; 


And In the Providence 


And 1 could feel them there 


That guides the steps of men. 


As in the quiet shade 


Hundreds have come to view 


They stood with tender thoughts, 


3Iy grandeur in decay; 


That pass"d along their life 


And there hath pass'd from me 


Like wings on a still lake. 


A quiet influence 


]Jlessing me; and to (iod. 


Into the minds of men: 


The blessed God, who cares 


The silver head of age, 


For all my little leaves, 


The majesty of laws. 


Went up the silent praise; 


The very name of God, 


And I was glad with joy 


And holiest tilings that are 


Which life of laboring things 


Have won upon the heart 


111 knows. — the joy that sinks — 


Of humankind the more. 


Into a life of rest. 


For that I stand to meet 


Ages have fled since then : 


With vast and bleaching trunk. 


But deem not my pierced trunk 


The rudeness of the sky. 



Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



EXDL'llAXCE. 

How much the heart may bear, and 
yet not break ! 
How much the flesh may suffer, 
and not die! 
I question nuich if any pain or ache 
Of soul or body brings our end 
more nigh; 
Death chooses his own time; till that 
is sworn, 
All evils may be borne. 

W^e shrink and shudder at the sur- 
geon's knife. 
Each nei've recoiling from the cruel 
steel 
Whose edge seems searching for the 
quivering life, 
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs 
reveal, 
That still, although the trembling 
flesh be torn. 

This also can be borne. 

We see a sorrow rising in our way. 
And try to flee from the approach- 
ing ill; 
We seek some small escape ; we weep 
and piay; 



But when the blow falls, then our 
hearts are still; 
Not that the pain is of its sharpness 
shorn. 

But that it can be borne. 

We wind our life about another life; 
We hold it closer, dearer than our 
oM'n : 
Anon it faints and fails in deathly 
strife. 
Leaving us stunned, and stricken, 
and alone; 
But ah ! we do not die with tliose we 
mourn, — 

This also can lie I)orne. 

Behold, we live through all things, — 
famine, thirst. 
Bereavement, pain; all grief and 
misery. 
All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its 
worst 
On soul and body, — but we cannot 
die. 
Though we be sick, and tired, and 
faint and worn, — 

Lo, all things can be borne! 



WHERE THE ROSES GREW. 

This is where the roses grew, 
In the summer that is gone; 

Faiivr bloom or richer hue 
Never siunmer shone upon : 

O, the glories vanislied hence! 

O, the sad imperfect tense! 

This is where the roses grew 

When the July days were long, — 

When tlie garden all day through 
Echoed witli delight and song; — 

Hark! tlie dead and broken stalks 

Eddying down the windy walks ! 

Never was a desert waste, 

AVliere no blossom-life is born, 

Half so dreary and unblest. 
Half so lonesome and forlorn. 

Since in this we dimly see 

All the bliss that used to he. 

Wliere the rose§ used to grow ! 

And tlie west-wind's wailing words 
Tell in whispers faint and low 

Of the famished humming-birds, — 
Of the bees which search in vain 
For the honey-cells again I 

This is where the roses grew. 

Till the ground was all perfume. 
And, whenever zephyrs blew. 

Carpeted with crimson bloom! 
Now the chill and scentless air, 
Sweeps the flower-plats brown and 
bare. 

Hearts have gardens sad as this. 

Where the roses bloom no more, — 
Gardens where no summer bliss 

Can the summer bloom restore. — 
Wliere the snow melts not away 
At the warming kiss of May ; — 

Gardens where the vei'nal morns 
Never shed their sunshine down, — 

Where are only stems and thorns. 
Veiled in dead leaves, curled and 
brown. — 

Gardens wliere we only see 

Where tlie roses H.se(? to be ! 



LAST. 

Friend, whose smile has come to be 

Very precious unto me. 

Though I know I drank not first, 
Of your love's bright fountain- 
l)urst, 

Yet I grieve not for the past. 

So you only love me last ! 

Other souls may find their joy 
In the blind love of a boy: 

Give me that which years have 
tried. 

Disciplined and purified, — 
Sucli as, braving sun and blast 
You will bring to me at last! 

There are brows more fair than mine. 
Eyes of more bewitching sliine. 
Other hearts more fit, in truth. 
For the passion of your youth ; 
But. their transient empire past. 
You will surely love me last! 

AViiig away your summer time. 

Find a love in every clime. 

lioaiii in liberty and light, — 
I shall never stay your flight; 

For I know, when all is past. 

You will come to me at last ! 

Change and flutter as you will, 

I shall smile securely still; 
Patiently I trust and wait 
Though you tarry long and late ; 

Prize your spring till it be past. 

Only, only love me last! 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Backwakd. turn backward, O Time, 
in your flight. 

Make me a child again just for to- 
night! 

Mother, come back from the echoless 
shore. 

Take me again to your heart as of 
yore ;" 



16 



ALLEN. 



Kiss from my forehead the furrows 

of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of 

my liair; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch 

keep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me 

to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of 
the years ! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 

Toil without recompense, teai's all in 
vain, — 

Take them, and give me my child- 
hood again I 

1 have grown weary of dust and de- 
cay, — 

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth 
away ; 

Weaiy of sowing for others to reap ; — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock 
me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the 
untrue. 

Mother, O mother, my heart calls for 
you ! 

Many a summer the grass has grown 
green. 

Blossomed and faded, our faces be- 
tween : 

Yet, with strong yearning and pas- 
sionate pain. 

Long I to-night for your presence 
again. 

Come from the silence so long and so 
deep ; — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me 
to sleep ! 

Over my heart in the days that are 
flown. 

No love like mother-love ever has 
shone ; 

Xo other worship abides and en- 
dures, — 

Faithful, unselfish, and patient like 
yours : 

None like a mother can charm away 
pain 

From the sick soul and the world- 
weary brain. 



Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy 

lids creep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me 

to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just 

lighted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again as of 

old; 
Let it drop over my forehead to- 
night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the 

light; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows 

once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions 

of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows 

sweep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me 

to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have 
been long 

Since I last listened your lullaby song: 

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall 
seem 

Womanhood's years have been only 
a dream. 

Clasped to your heart in a loving em- 
brace. 

With your light lashes just sweeping 
my face. 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me 
to sleep ! 



UNTIL DEATH. 

Make me no vows of constancy, dear 
friend, 
To love me. though I die, thy whole 
life long. 
And love no other till thy days shall 
end ; 
Nay, it were rash and wrong. 

If thou canst love another, be it so; 
I would not reach out of my quiet 
grave 
To bind thy heart, if it should choose 
' to go : — 
Love should not be a slave. 



ALLEN. 



17 



My placid gliost, 1 trust, will walk 
serene 
In clearer lisht than gilds those 
earthly morns, 
Above the jealousies and envies 
keen 
Which sow this life with thorns. 

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy 
caress, 
If, after death, my soul should lin- 
ger here ; 
Men's hearts crave tangible, close 
tenderness. 
Love's presence, warm and near. 

It would not make me sleep more 
peacefully 
That thou wert wasting all thy life 
in woe 
For my poor sake; what love thou 
hast for me. 
Bestow it ere I go I 

Carve not upon a stone when I am 
dead 
The praises which remorseful 
mourners give 
To women's graves, — a tardy recom- 
pense, — 
But speak them while I live. 

Heap not the heavy marble on my 
head 
To shut away the sunshine and the 
dew ; 
Let small blooms grow there, and let 
grasses wave. 
And rain-drops filter through. 

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more 
gay 
Than I: but, trust me, thou canst 
never tind 
One who will love and serve thee 
night and day 
With a more single mind. 

Forget me when I die ! The violets 
Above my breast will blossom just 
as blue. 
Nor miss thy tears ; e'en Nature's 
self forgets; — 
But while I live, be true! 



EVERY DAY. 

O, TP.IFI.ING tasks so often done, 

Yet ever to be done anew ! 
O, cares which come with every sun. 
Morn after morn, the long years 
through I 
We shrink beneath their paltry 

sway, — 
The irksome calls of every day. 

The restless sense of wasted power. 

The tiresome round of little things. 
Are hard to bear, as hour by hour 

Its tedious iteration brings ; 
Who shall evade or who delay 
The small demands of every day ? 

The boulder in the torrent's course 

By tide and tempest lashed in vain. 
Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's 
force. 
And yields its substance grain by 
grain ; 
So crumble strongest lives away 
Beneath the wear of every day. 

Who finds the lion in his lair. 
Who tracks the tiger for his life. 

May wound them ere they are aware, 
Or conquer them in desperate 
strife; 

Yet powerless he to scathe or slay 

The vexing gnats of every day. 

The steady strain that never stops 
Is mightier than the fiercest shock; 

The constant fall of water-drops 
Will groove the adamantine rock; 

We feet our noblest powers decay, 

In feeble wars with every day. 

We rise to meet a heavy blow — 
Our souls a sudden bravery fills — 

But we endure not always so 
The drop-by-drop of little ills ! 

We still deplore and still obey 

The hard behests of every day. 

The heart which boldly faces death 
Upon the battle-field, and dares 

Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath 
The needle-points of frets and cares ; 

The stoutest spirits they dismay — 

The tiny stings of eveiy day. 



ALLINGHAM. 



And even saints of holy fame, 

Whose souls by faith have over- 
come, 

Who wore amid the cruel flame 
The molten crown of martyrdom, 

Bore not without complaint ahvay 

The petty pains of every day. 



Ah ! more than martyr's aureole. 
And more than hero's heart of 
fire. 

We need the humble strength of soul 
Which daily toils and ills require ; — 

Sweet Patience ! grant us, if you may, 

An added grace for every day. 



William Allingham. 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A MAN there came, whence none 
could tell. 

Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 

And tested all things in the land 
By its unerring spell. 

Qviick birth of transmutation smote 
Tlie fair to foul, the foul to fair; 
Purple nor ermine did he sj^are. 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much. 
Were many changed to chips and 

clods, 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

' ' The loss outweighs the profit far ; 



Our goods suffice us as they are ; 
We will not have them tried." 

And since they could not so avail 
To check this unrelenting guest. 
They seized him, saying, " Let him 
test 

How real is our jail!" 

But, though they slew him with the 
sword, 
And in a fire his touchstone bvu'ned, 
Its doings could not be o'erturned. 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all futui'e harm. 
They strewed its ashes on the 

breeze ; 
They little guessed each grain of 
these 
Conveyed the perfect charm. 



AUTUMNAL SONNET. 

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 

And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt. 

And night by night the monitory blast 

Wails in the keyliole, telling how it passed 

O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes. 

Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt 

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. 

Dear fiiends. together in the glimmering eve, 

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize 

The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes. 

It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with Memory, when distant lies 

Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. 



ALLSTON — APPLETON. 



19 



Washington Allston. 



BO YHOOD. 



Ah, then how sweetly closed those 

crowded days! 
The minutes parting one by one like 
rays. 
That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh! what charm, or magic 
niunbers 
, Can give me back the gentle slum- 
bers 



Those weary, happy days did 

leave? 
When by my bed 1 saw my mother 

kneel. 
And with her blessing took her 

nightly kiss; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot 

this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 



Thomas Gold Appleton. 



TO no USE, THE ARTIST. 

As when in watches of the night we 
see. 

Hanging in tremulous beauty o'er 
the bed. 

The face we loved on Earth, now 
from us fled; 

So wan, so sweet, so spiritually 
free 

From taint of Earth, thy tender 
drawings be. 

There we may find a friend remem- 
bered ; 

With a new aureole hovering round 
the head. 

Given by Art's peaceful immortal- 
ity. 

How many homes half empty fill the 
l)lace 

Death vacates, with thy gracious sub- 
stitutes ! 

Not sensuous with color, which may 
disgrace 

The memory of the body shared with 
brutes ; 

But the essential spirit in the 
face; 

As angels see us, best, Affection 
suits. 



TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, 
AFTER THE WAR. 

Oh! happiest thou, who from the 

shining height. 
Of tablelands serene can look below 
Where glared the tempest, and the 

lightning's glow. 
And see thy seed made harvest wave 

in light, 
And all the darkened land with 

God's smile bright! 
Leaving with him the issue. Enough 

to know 
Albeit the sword hath sundered broth- 
ers so, 
Yet God's vicegerent ever is the 

Right. 
Nor will lie leave us bleeding, but 

Ills Time 
AVhich healeth all things will our 

wounds make whole. 
While washed and cleansed of oui' 

fraternal crime. 
Freedom shall count again her starrv 

roll ; 
All tliere, and moving with a step 

sublime 
To music God sounds in the human 

soul. 



20 



ARNOLD. 



Edwin Arnold 

SHE AND HE. 



"She is dead!" they said to him. 

" Couie away; 
Kiss hei'I and leave her I — thy love 

is clay!" 

They smoothed her tresses of dark 

brown hair; 
On her forehead of marble they laid 

it fair: 

Over her eyes, wiiich gazed loo 

much, 
They drew the lids with a gentle 

touch ; 

With a tender touch they closed up 

well 
The sweet thin lips that had seci'ets 

to tell; 

About lier brows, and her dear, pale 
face 

They tied lier veil and her marriage- 
lace; 

And drew on her white feet her 

white silk shoes; — 
Which were the whiter no eye could 

choose ! 

And over her bosom they crossed 

her hands; 
"Come away," they said, — "God 

understands!" 

And then there was Silence; — and 

nothing there 
But the Silence — and scents of 

eglantere, 

And jasmine, and roses, and rose- 
mary ; 

For they said, "As a lady should lie, 
lies she!" 

And they held their breath as they 
left the room. 

With a shudder to glance at its still- 
ness and gloom. 



Cut he — who loved her too well to 

dread 
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful 

dead, — 

He lit his lamp, and took the key. 
And turn'd it! — Alone again — he 
and she! 

He and she; but she would not speak. 
Though he kiss'd, in the old place, 
the quiet cheek; 

He and she; yet she would not smile. 
Though he call'd her the name that 
was fondest erewhile. 

He and she; and she did not move 
To any one passionate whisper of love ! 

Then he said, "Cold lips! and breast 

without breath! 
Is there no voice ? — no language of 

death 

"Dumb to the ear and still to the 

sense. 
But to heart and to soul distinct, — 

intense ? 

"See, now, — 1 listen with soul, not 

ear — 
What was the secret of dying, Dear ? 

" Was it the infinite wonder of all. 
That you ever could let life's flower 
fall ? 

" Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
The perfect calm o'er the agony 
steal ? 

"Was the miracle greatest to find 

liow deep, 
Beyontl all dreams, sank downward 

that sleep ? 

" Did life roll backward its record, 

Dear, 
And shoM-, as they say it does, past 

things clear ? 



AliNOLD. 



21 



*' And was il the innermost heart of 

the bliss 
To find ont so vvhat a wisdom love is '' 

"Oh, perfect Dead! oh, Dead most 

dear, 
I hold the breath of my soid to hear: 

" 1 listen — as deep as to horrible 

hell, 
As high as to heaven I — and yon do 
^lot tell! 

"There must be pleasures in dying, 

Sweet, 
To make you so placid from head to 

feet"! 

" I would tell ymi, Darling, if I were 

dead. 
And 'twere your hot tears upon my 

brow shed. 

" I would say, tliough the angel of 

death had laid 
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 

^''Yoii should not ask, vainly, with 

streaming eyes. 
Which in Deatli's touch was the 

chief est surprise; 

" The very strangest and suddenest 

thing 
Of all tlie surprises that dying mtist 

bring." 

Ah! foolish world! Oli! most kind 

Dead! 
Thougli he told me, wlio will believe 

it was said? 

Who will believe that he heard her 

say, 
With the soft ricli voice, in the dear 

old way: — 

"The utmost wonder is this, — I liear. 
And see you. and love you, and kiss 
you. Dear; 

"I can speak, now you listen with 

soul alone; 
If your soul could see, it wotild all 

be sliown. 



" Wliat a strange delicious amaze- 
ment is Death, 

To be without body and breathe 
without breatli. 

" 1 should laugh for joy if you did 

not cry; 
Oh, listen! Love lasts! — Love never 

will die. 

"1 am only your Angel who was your 

Bride; 
And 1 know, tliat tliough dead, I 

have never died." 



AFTER DEATH IN AUABIA. 

He who died at Azan sends 
This to comfort all his friends: 

Faithful friends! It lies, I know. 
Pale and white and coUl as snow: 
And ye say, " Abdallah's dead!" 
AVeeping at the feet and head, 
I can see your falling tears, 
1 can hear your sighs and piayers ; 
Yet I smile and whisper this, — 
" / am not the thing you kiss; 
Cease your tears, and let it lie; 
It was mine, it is not I." 

Sweet friends! What the women lave 
For its last bed of the grave. 
Is a tent which I am quitting, 
Is a garment no more tilting. 
Is a cage from wliich. at last. 
Like a hawk my soul hath passed. 
Love the inmate, not the room. — 
The wearer, not the garb. — the 

plume 
Of the falcon, not the Ijars 
Which kept him from these splendid 

stars. 

Loving friends! Be wise and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye, — 
What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a wistful tear. 
'Tis an empty sea-shell. — one 
Out of which the pearl is gone: 
The shell is broken, it lies there; 
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 



\ 



22 



ARNOLD. 



'Tis an earthen jar, whose Hd 
Allah sealed, the while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, 
A mind that loved him; let it lie! 
Let the shard be earth's once more, 
Since the gold shines in his store! 

Allah glorious! Allah good! 
Now thy world is understood; 
Now the long, long wonder ends ; 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
While the man whom ye call dead, 
In unspoken bliss, instead. 
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true. 
By such light as shines for you; 
But in light ye cannot see 
Of unfuhilled felicity, — 
In enlarging paradise, 
Lives a Hfe that never dies. 

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; 
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. 
I am gone before your face, 
A moment's time, a little space. 
When ye come where I have stepped 
Ye will wonder why ye wept; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught. 
That here is all, and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, — 
Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
Only not at death, — for death. 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life, which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain all seems love. 
Viewed from Allah's throne above; 
Be ye stout of heart, and come 
Bravely onward to your home! 
La Allah ilia Allali! yea! 
Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! 



He that died at Azan gave 
This to those who made his 



FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 

If on this verse of mine 
Those eyes shall ever shine. 
Whereto sore-wounded men have 

looked for life, 
Think not that for a rhyme, 
Nor yet to fit the time, 
I name thy name, — true victor in 

this strife! 
But let it serve to say 
That, when we kneel to pray, 
Prayers rise for thee thine ear shall 

never know; 
And that thy gallant deed. 
For God, and for our need. 
Is in all hearts, as deep as love can 

go. 

'Tis good that thy name springs 
From two of Earth's fair things — 
A stately city and a soft-voiced bird; 
'Tis well that in all homes. 
When thy sweet story comes, 
And brave eyes fill — that pleasant 

sounds be heard. 
Oh voice ! in night of fear. 
As night's bird, soft to hear, 
Oh great heart! raised like city on a 

hill; 
Oh watcher! worn and pale. 
Good Florence Nightingale, 
Thanks, loving tlianks,"for thy large 

work and will ! 
England is glad of thee — 
Christ, for thy charity, 
Take thee to joy when hand and 

heart are still ! 



ARNOLD. 



23 



George Arnold. 



IN THE DAHK. 

[The author's last poem, written a few 
days before his death.] 

All moveless stand the ancient 
cedar-trees 
Along the drifted sand-hills where 
they grow; 
And from the darkness comes a wan- 
dering breeze, 
And waves them to and fro. 

A murky darkness lies along the 
sand. 
When bright the sunbeams of the 
morning shone, 
And the eye vainly seeks by sea and 
land 
Some light to rest upon. 

No large, pale star its glimmering 
vigil keeps; 
An inky sea reflects an inky sky; 
And the dark river, like a serpent, 
creeps 
To where its black piers lie. 

Strange salty odors through the dark- 
ness steal, 
And through the dark, the ocean- 
thunders roll; 
Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till 
I feel 
Its weight upon my soul. 

I stretch my hands out in the empty 
air; 
I strain my eyes into the heavy 
night ; 
Blackness of darkness ! — Father, 
hear my prayer! 
Grant me to see the light! 



CUI BONO? 

A HAintLESS fellow, wasting useless 
days. 
Am I : I love my comfort and my 
leisure ; 



Let those who wish them toil for 

gold and i^raise; 
To me the summer-day brings more 

of pleasure. 

So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease, 
While solenm voices from the Past 
are calling. 
Mingled with rustling whispers in the 
trees, 
And pleasant sounds of water idly 
falling. 



There was a time when I had higher 
aims 
Than thus to lie among the flow- 
ers and listen 
To listening birds, or watch the sun- 
set's flames 
On the broad river's surface glow 
and glisten. 

There was a time, perhaps, when I 
had thought 
To make a name, a home, a bright 
existence: 
But time has shown me that my 
dreams are naught 
Save a mirage that vanished with 
the distance. 

Well, it is gone: I care no longer 
now 
For fame, for fortune, or for empty 
praises ; 
Rather than wear a crown upon my 
brow, 
I'd lie forever here among the 
daisies. 

So you, who wish for fame, good 
friend, pass by; 
With you I surely cannot think to 
quarrel: 
Give me peace, rest, this bank 
whereon I lie, 
And spare me both the labor and 
the laurel ! 



24 



ARNOLD. 



Matthew Arnold. 

YO U TirS AG IT A TIOXS. 



When I shall be divorced, some ten 

years hence. 
From this poor present self which I 

am now; 
When youth has done its tedious 

vain expense 
Of passions that forever ebb and flow; 

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left 

behind. 
And bieathe more happy in an even 

clime? — 
Ah no, for then 1 shall begin to find 
A thousand virtues in this hated 

time! 

Then I shall wish its agitations back, 

And all its thwarting currents of de- 
sire ; 

Then I shall praise the heat which 
then 1 lack, 

And call this hurrying fever, gener- 
ous fire; 

And sigh that one thing only has 
been lent 

To youth and age in common — dis- 
content. 



No, no! the energy of life may he 
Kept on after the grave, but not 

begun ; 
And he who flagg'd not in the 

earthly strife. 

From strength to strength advancing 

only he. 
His soul well-knit, and all his battles 

w'on, 
Moiuits, and that hardly, to eternal 

life. 



IMMORTALITY. 

Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, 

outworn, 
We" leave the brutal world to take its 

way, 
And, Pfliie»ce.' in another life, we say. 
The loorhl shall be thrtiat doit^n, and 

we xip-horne. 

And will not, then, the immortal 

armies scorn 
The world's poor, routed leavings? 

or will they, 
Who fail'd under the heat of this 

life's day. 
Support the fervors of the heavenly 

morn ? 



EAST LOXDOX. 

'TwAS August, and the fierce sun 
overhead 

Smote on tlie squalid streets of Beth- 
nal Green, 

And the i)ale weaver, through his 
windows seen 

In Spitaltields, look'd thrice dis- 
pirited. 

I met a preacher there I knew, and 

said : 
" 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in 

this scene?" — 
"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late 

have been 
Mucli cheer'd with thoughts of 

Christ, the living In-ead.'' 

O human soul ! as long as thou canst 

so 
Set up a mark of everlasting light. 
Above the howling senses' ebb and 

flow. 

To cheer thee, and to right thee if 

thou roam — 
Not with lost toil thou laborest 

through the night! 
Thou mak'st the heaven tliou hop'st 

indeed thy home. 



ARNOLD. 



25 



AUSTERITY OF POETRY. 

That son of Italy who tried to blow, 
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred 

song. 
In his light youth amid a festal 

throng 
Sate with his bride to see a public 

show. 

Fair was the bride, and on her front 
did glow 

Youth like a star; and what to youth 
belong — 

Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, ela- 
tion strong. 

A prop gave way i crash fell a plat- 
form! lo, 

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to 

death, she lay I 
iShuddering. they drew her garments 

off — and found 
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, 

white skin. 

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! 

young, gay, 
Radiant, adorn'd otxtside; a hidden 

ground 
Of thought and of atisterity within. 



\^From Memorial ]'erscs.'] 
GOETHE. 

He took the suffering human race, 
He read each wound, each weakness 

clear; 
And struck his finger on the place. 
And said: Thou uilest here, and 

here ! 



EARL Y BE A TH AXD FAME. 

Foil him who must see many years, 
1 praise the life which slips away 
Out of the light and mutely ; whicli 

avoids 
Fame, and her less fair followers, 

envy, strife. 
Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, 
Insincere praises; which descends 
The quiet mossy track to age. 



But, when immature death 
Beckons too early the guest 
From the half-tried l)anquet of life, 
Young, in the bloom of his days; 
Leaves no leisure to press. 
Slow and sui'ely. the sweets 
Of a tranquil life in the shade — 
Fidler for him be the hours! 
Give him emotion, though pain! 
Let him live, let him feel : / have lived. 
Heap up his moments with life ! 
Triple his pulses with fame I 



SELF-DEPEXDEKCE. 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
What 1 am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which 

l)ears me 
Forwaixls, forwards, o'er the starlit 

sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 
O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 
" Ye who from my childhood up have 

calni'd me. 
Calm me, ah, compose me to the 

end ! 

" Ah, once more," I cried, " ye stars. 

ye Avaters, 
On my heart your mighty charm 

renew; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. 
Feel my soul becoming vast like 

you I" 

From the intense, clear, star-sown 

vault of heaven. 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
In the rustling night-air came the 

answer: 
" Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live 

as they. 

' • Unaffrighted by the silence round 
them, 

Undistracted by the sights they see. 

These demand not that the things 
without them 

Y'ield them love, amusement, sym- 
pathy. 



"And with joy the stars perform 


In their own tasks all their powers 


their shining, 


pouring, 


And the sea its long moon-silver'd 


These attain the mighty life you 


roll ; 


see." 


For self-poised they live, nor pine 




with noting 


air-born voice I long since, severely 


All the fever of some differing soul. 


clear, 




A cry like thine in mine own heart 


"Bounded by themselves, and unre- 


I hear: 


gardful 


"Resolve to be thyself; and know. 


In what state God's other works may 


that he 


be. 


Who finds himself, loses his misery ! '" 



Philip James Bailey. 

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE. 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath; 

In feelings, not in figures on the dial. 

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat 

For God, for man, for duty. He most lives. 

Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best. 

Life is but a means unto an end — that end. 

Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God. 



Joanna Baillie. 



THE WORTH OF FAME. 

Oh I who shall lightly say, that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
AVhilst in that sound there is a charm 
The nerves to brace, the heart to 

warm. 
As, thinking of the mighty dead, 
The young from slothful couch will 
start. 
And vow, with lifted hands out- 
spread. 
Like them to act a noble part? 

Oh ! who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
When, but for those, our mighty 
dead. 

All ages past a blank would be, 
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, 

A desert bare, a shipless sea? 



They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame 
Is nothing but an empty name! 
When memory of the mighty dead 

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed, 

That point to innuortality? 



THE KITTEN. 

Wantox droll, whose harmless 
play 
Beguiles the rustic's closing day. 
When drawn the evening fire about, 
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout. 
And child upon his three-foot stool, 
Waiting till liis supper cool; 



And maid, whose cheek outblooms 

the rose, 
As bright tlie blazing fagot glows, 
Wlio, bending to the friendly light 
Plies her task with busy sleight; 
Come, show tliy tricks and sportive 

graces. 
Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coil'd, and crouching 

low, 
Witli glaring eyeballs watcli thy foe. 
The housewife's spindle whirling 

round. 
Or thread, or straw, that on the 

ground 
Its sliadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye; 
Tlien onward stealing, fiercely spring 
Upon the futile, faitliless tiling. 
Now, wheeling round, witli bootless 

skill. 
Thy bo-peep tall provokes thee still. 
As oft beyond tliy curving side 
Its jetty tip is seen to glide; 
Till from tliy centre, starting fair. 
Thou sidelong rear'st, witli rump in 

air, 
Erected stiff, and gait awry, 
Like madam in lier tantrums liigli: 
Tiiougli ne'er a madam of tliem all, 
Wliose silken kirtle sweeps the liall 
More varied trick and whim displays, 
To catcli the admiring stranger's 

gaze .... 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude tliy feats admire; 
The learned sage, whose tlioughts 

explore 
The widest range of liuman lore, 
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fiy 
Tlirough airy heiglits of poesy. 
Pausing, smiles witli alter'd air. 
To see thee climb his elbow-cliair, 
Or, struggling on the mat below. 
Hold warfare" with his slipper'd toe. 
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid. 
Who in the still, but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial, spends her age, 
And rarely turns a letter' d page; 
Upon her hearth for tliee lets fall 
The rounded cork, or paper ball, 
Xor cliides tliee on thy wicked watcli 



The ends of ravell'd skein to catch. 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her sober skill 



MY LOVE IS ON HER WAV. 

Oh, welcome bat and owlet gray, 
Thus winging low youi- airy way I 
And welcome motli and drowsy fly 
Tliat to mine ear conies humming by I 
And welcome sliadows dim and deep, 
And stars that througli the pale sky 

peep ; 
Oh welcome all ! to me ye say 
My woodland love is on her way. 

Upon the soft wind floats her hair, 
Her breath is on the dewy air; 
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound, 
That steals along the stilly ground. 
Oil, dawn of day, in rosy bower, 
What art thou to this witching hour ? 
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright. 
What art thou to this fall of night ? 



SNATCHES OF MlllTH IN A DARK 
LIFE. 

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's 

veering breast. 
Winging the air beneath some murky 

ctoud 
In the sunned glimpses of a stormy 

day. 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning 

flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's 

path 
Tracks the still waters of some sul- 
len lake '? 
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass 

of woods. 
Give to the parting of a wintry sun 
One hasty glance in mockery of the 

night 
Closing in darkness round it ? ( Gentle 

friend ! 
Chide not her mirth who was sad 

yesterday, 
And nlav be so to-morrow.) 



28 



BALLANTINE — BARB A ULD. 



James Ballantine. 

ILKA BLADE O' Gl{ASS KEPS ITS AIX DUAP O' DEW. 

CoxFiDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind. 

And bear ye a' life's clian^es, wi' a calm and tranqui! mind, 

Though pressed and liemmed on every side, lia'e faith and ye'll win through, 

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o'dew. 

Gin reftfrae friends or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, 
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een, 
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, 
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky 
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain lo nature parched and dry. 
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, 
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel OMTe proud and hie, 
And in our pride foi'get to wipe the tear frae pooitith's e'e, 
ISome wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, 
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 



Anna Letitia Barbauld. 



LIFE. 

Life! I know not what thou art. 
But know that thou and I nuxst part; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 



Life I we've been long together 

Through pleasant and through cloudy 
weather ; 

'Tis liard to part when friends are 
dear — 

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 

— Then steal away, give little warn- 
ing. 

Choose thine own time; 

Say not Good Night, — but in some 
brighter clime 
Bid me Good Morning. 



THE DEATH UE^ THE VIRTUOUS. 

Saveet is the scene when virtue dies I 
When sinks a righteous soul to rest. 

How mildly beam the closing eyes. 
How gently heaves th' expiring 
breast. 

So fades a summer cloud away 
So sinks the gale when storms are 
o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow. 
Fanned by some angel's purple 
wing; — 
Where is, O Grave! tliy victory now! 
And where, insidious Death, thy 
sting! 



BARKER — BARL W. 



29 



Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 
Where light and shade alternate 
dwell! 
How bright the nnchangiug morn 
appears ; — 
Farewell, inconstant world, fare- 
well! 



Its duty done, — as sinks the day, 
Light from its load the spirit 
flies; 
While heaven and earth combine to 
say 
"Sweet is the scene when Virtue 
dies! " 



David Barker. 

THE COVERED BIHDGE. 



Tell the fainting soul in the weary 
form, 
There's a world of the purest 
bliss. 
That is linked as the soul and form 
are linked. 
By a covered bridge with this. 



Yet to reach that realm on the other 
shore, 
We must pass through a transient 
gloom. 
And must walk unseen, uuhelped, 
and alone 
Through that covered bridge — the 
tomb. 



But we all pass over on equal terms. 

For the universal toll 
Is the outer garb, which the hand of 
God 

Has flung around the soul. 

Though the eye is dim and the bridge 
is dark. 
And the river it spans is wide, 
Yet Faith points through to a shin- 
ing mount 
That looms on the other side. 

To enable our feet on the next day's 
march 
To climb up that golden ridge, 
We must all lie down for a one 
night's rest 
Inside of the covered bridge. 



Joel Barlow. 



TO FREEDOM. 

Sux of the moral world ! effulgent 
source 

Of man's best wisdom and his stead- 
iest force. 

Soul-searching Freedom ! here assume 
thy stand. 

And radiate hence to every distant 
land ; 

Point out and prove how ail the 
scenes of strife. 

The shock of states, the impassion' d 
broils of life, 



Spring from unequal sway; and how 

they fly 
Before the splendor of thy peaceful 

eye; 
Unfold at last the genuine social plan. 
The mind's full scope, the dignity of 

man. 
Bold natuie bursting through her 

long disguise. 
And nations daring to be just and wise. 
Yes! righteous Freedom, heaven and 

earth and sea 
Yield or withhold their various gifts 

for thee; 



30 



BARNARD. 



Protected industry beneath thy reign 
Leads all the virtues in her filial 

train ; 
Courageous Probity, with brow serene ; 
And Temperance calm presents her 

placid mien ; 
Contentment, Moderation, Labor, 

Art, 
Mould the new man and humanize 

his heart; 



To public plenty, private ease di- 
lates, 

Domestic peace, to harmony of states. 

Protected Industry, careering far, 

Detects the cause, and cures the rage 
of war. 

And sweeps, with forceful arm, to 
their last graves, 

Kings from the eartli aud pirates 
from the waves. 



Lady Anne Barnard. 



ACLD ROBIX QUAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame, 
When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane ; 
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
Uukenned by my gudeman who soundly sleeps by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride, 
But, saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside. 
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea; 
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me ! 

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, 
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away; 
My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — 
And Auld Kobin Gray, O! he came a-courting me. 

My father cou'dna work — my mother cou'dna spin; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, 
Said, " Jenny, O! for their sakes, will you marry me ! " 

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; 
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee ? 
Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out, Wae is me! 

My father argued sair — my mother didna speak. 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; 
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea; 
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, 

When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, 

I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it he. 

Till he said, *' I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee! " 



BATES. 



31 



sail', sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; 

Ae kiss we took, na mair — I bade liirn gang awa. 

1 wisli that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee; 
For O, 1 am but young to cry out, Wae is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena mvich to spin, 
I darena think of Jamie, for that wad be a sin; 
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be. 
For Auld Robin Gray, O ! he is sae kind to me. 



Charlotte Fiske Bates. 



MAKE THINE ANGEL GLAD. 

Fkom the morning even until now. 

Evil over thee full power hath had ; 
Oh, remember late the shattered 
vow! 
Turn to God, and make thine 
angel glad. 



Sin will seek to snare thy heart 
again ; 
Though her beauty make thee al- 
most mad, 
Though resistance make thee pale 
with pain, 
Turn to God, and make thine 
angel glad. 



CONSECRATION. 

A lover's mood. 

All, the kisses that I have given, 
I grudge from my soul to-day, 

And of all I have ever taken, 
I would wipe the thought away. 



How 1 wish my lips had been her- 
mits. 

Held apart from kith and kin. 
That fresh from God's holy service, 

To Love's they might enter in. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 

The years have linings just as gob- 
lets do: 

The old year is the lining of the 
new, — 

Filled with the wine of precious 
memories, 

The golden loas doth line the silver 
is. 



WOODBINES IN OCTOBER. 

As dyed in blood, the streaming 
vines appear. 
While long and low the wind about 
them grieves; 
The heart of Autumn must have 
broken here 
And poured its treasure out upon 
the leaves. 



TO VICTORIA. 



A MONARCH soul hath ruled thyself, O Queen, 
Else what it is, thy kingdom had not been. 



S-2 



BATES. 



Fletcher Bates. 



THE TWO BIRDS. 

As leaves turned red 

And some fell dead. 
For sunnier skies two songsters fled ; 

But ere they went, 

In merriment 
They sung how summer had heen 
spent. 

One song oonfest, 

" I had my nest 
Near yonder mountain's lofty crest; 

Where none intrude 

In lonely mood 
I carolled oft in solitude." 

The other sung 

" I built among 
The cottagers, where old and young 

Who trod the vale 

Would often hail 
Me, as their little nightingale." 



Then off they flew. 

Like specks they grew. 
Then faded in the heavenly blue. 

Our human lot 

Was theirs, I wot, 
For one was missed, and one was not. 



THE DEAD REE. 

Where honeysuckles scent the way, 
I heai'd thee hunnning yesterday; 
Thy little life was not in vain, 
It gathered sweets for other's gain, 
And somewhere in a dainty cell 
Is stored delicious hydromel. 

O poet! in thy calm retreat, 
Fioni joy and grief extracting sweet, 
(Some day thy fancy's wings must fold, 
And thou lie motionless and cold. 
Perhaps thy garnered honey then 
May be the food of living men. 



Katharine Lee Bates. 



THE ORGAXIST. 

Slowly I circle the dim, dizzy stair, 

Wrapt in my cloak's gray fold, 
Holding my heart lest it throb to theair 
Its radiant secret, for though I be 
old. 
Though I totter and rock like a ship 

in the wind, 
And the sunbeams come unto me 
broken and blind, 
Yet my spirit drinks youth from 
the treasure we hold. 
Richer than gold. 

Princes below me, lips wet from the 
wine. 
Hush at my organ's swell; 
Ladies applaud me with clappings as 
fine 
As showers that splash in a mu- 
sical well. 



But their ears only hear mighty mel-- 

odies ringing, 
And their souls" never know 'tis my 
angel there singing. 
That the grand organ-angel awakes 
in his cell 

Under my spell. 

There in the midst of the wandering 
pipes. 
Far from the gleaming keys, 
And the organ-front with its gilded 
stripes, 
My glorious angel lies sleeping at 
ease. 
And the hand of a stranger may beat 

at his gate. 
And the ear of a stranger may listen 
and wait. 
But he only cries in his pain for 
these. 
Witless to please. 




BAYLY. 



33 



Angel, my angel, the old man's hand 

Xnoweth thy silver way. 
J. loose thy lips from their silence- 
band 
And over thy heart-strings my fin- 
gers play. 
While the song peals forth from thy 

mellow throat. 
And my spirit climbs on the climb- 
ing note. 
Till I mingle thy tone with the 
tones away 
Over the day. 



So I look up as 1 follow the tone, 

Up with my dim old eyes, 
And I wonder if organs have angels 
alone, 
Or if, as my fancy might almost 
surmise. 
Each man in liis heart folds an angel 

with wings. 
An angel that slumbers, but wakens 
and sings 
When thrilled by the touch that is 
sympathy-wise. 
Bidding it rise. 



Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

The matron at her mirror, 

With her hand upon her brow, 
Sits gazing on her lovely face, — 

Ay, lovely even now ! 
Why doth she lean upon her hand 

With such a look of care '? 
Why steals that tear across her 
cheek ? 

She sees her first gray hair I 

Time from her form hath ta'en away 

But little of its grace; 
His touch of thought hath dignified 

The beauty of her face. 
Yet she might mingle in the dance 

Where maidens gayly trip. 
So bright is still her hazel eye, 

So beautifiU her lip. 

The faded form is often mark'd 

By sorrow more than years, — 
The wrinkle on the cheek may be 

The course of secret tears ; 
The moiu'nful lip may nuu-mur of 

A love it ne'er confess' d. 
And the dimness of the eye betray 

A heart that cannot rest. 

But she hath been a happy wife: 

The lover of her youth 
May proudly claim the smile that 
pays 

The trial of his truth; 



A sense of slight — of loneliness 
Hath never banish'd sleep: 

Her life hath been a cloudless one; 
Then wherefore doth she weep ? 

She look'd upon her raven locks, — 

AVhat thoughts diil they recall '? 
Oh! not of nights when they were 
deck'd 

For banquet or for ball; 
They brought back thoughts of early 
youth, 

Ere she had learn'd to check. 
With artificial wi'eaths. the curls 

That sported o"er her neck. 

She seeni'd to feel her mother's hand 

Pass lightly through her hair, 
And draw it from her brow, to leave 

A kiss of kindness there. 
She seem'd to view her father's smile, 

And feel the playful touch 
That sometimes feign'd to steal away 

The curls she prized so much. 

And now she sees her first gray hair I 

Oh, deem it not a crime 
For her to weep, when she beholds 

The first footmark of Time I 
She knows that, one by one, those 
mute 

Mementos will increase. 
And steal youth, beauty, strength 
away. 

Till life itself shall cease. 



/&p^ 






34 



BEATTIE. 



Ah, lady! heed the monitor! 

Thy mirror tells thee truth ; 
Assume the matron's folded veil, 

Resign the wreath of youth : 



Go! hind it on thy daughter's hrtiw, 
In her thou" It still look fair — 

'Twere well would all learn wisdom, 
who 
Behold the tirst gray hair ! 



James Beattie. 



[From The Minstrel.] 
THE ASCENT TO FAME. 

Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to 

. climb 
The steep where Fame's proud tem- 
ple shines afar '? 
Ah ! who can tell how many a sottl 

sublime 
Has felt the influence of malignant 

star. 
And waged with Fortune an eternal 

war ? 
Checked by the scoff of Pride, by 

Envy's frown, 
And Poverty's unconquerable bar. 
In life's low vale remote has pined 

alone, 
Then dropped into the grave, im- 

pitied and unknown! 




[From The Minstrel.] 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 

Oh, how canst thou renounce the 

boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her 

votary yields! 
The warbling woodland, the resoimd- 

ing shore. 
The pomp of groves, and garniture 

of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morninii 

gilds, 
And all that echoes to the song of 

even. 
All that the mountain's sheltering 

bosom shields. 
And all the dread magnificenct of 

heaven. 
Oh, how canst thou renotmce, and 

hope to be forgiven '.* 



I From The Minstrel.] 
BE A UTIES OF MORNING. 

But who the melodies of morn can 

tell ■? 
The wild brook babbling down the 

moimtain side; 
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's 

simple bell; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim 

descried 
In the lone valley; echoing far and 

wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs 

above ; 
The hollow munnur of the ocean- 
tide ; 
The htun of bees, the linnet's lay of 

love. 
And the full choir that wakes the 

universal ijrove. 



The cottage-curs at early pilgrim 
bark ; 

Crowned with her pail the tripping 
milkmaid sings; 

The whistling ploughman stalks 
afield; and, hark! 

Down the rough slope the ponderous 
wagon rings; 

Through rustling corn the hare as- 
tonished springs; 

Slow tolls the village-clock the 
drowsy hour; 

The partridge bursts away on wliir- 
ring wings; 

Deep mourns the turtle in seques- 
tered bower. 

And shrill lark carols clear from hei 
aerial tower. 




[From The Minstrel.] 
DEATH AXD HESURHECTIOX. 

Wheke now the rill, melodious, 
pure, and cool. 

And meads, with life, and mirth, 
and beauty crowned ? 

Ah I see, the unsightly slime, and 
sluggish pooh 

Have all the solitary vale em- 
browned ; 

Fled each fair form, and nuite each 
melting sound, 

The raven croaks forlorn on naked 
spray. 

And hark! the river bursting every 
mound, 

Down the vale thunders, and with 
wasteful sway 

Uproots the grove, and rolls the shat- 
tered rocks away. 

Yet such the destiny of all on earth: 

So flourishes and fades majestic man. 

Fair is the Ijud his vernal morn 
brings forth. 

And fostei'ing gales a while the luu-s- 
ling fan. 

O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mil- 
dews wan. 

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his 
balmy prime. 

Nor lessen of his life the little span. 

Borne on the swift, though silent 
wings of Time, 

Old age comes on apace to ravage all 
the clime. 



And be it so. Let those deplore 

their doom 
Whose hope still grovels in this dark 

sojourn ; 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the 

tomb. 
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how 

they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no 

more return ? 
Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal 

bed '? 
Soon shall the orient with new lustre 

buin. 
And Spring shall soon her vital influ- 
ence shed. 
Again attune the grove, again adorn 

the mead. 

Shall 1 be left forgotten in the 

dust. 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower 

revive ? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone 

unjust. 
Bid him, though doomed to perish, 

hope to live ? 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must 

strive 
AVith disappointment, penury, and 

pain ? 
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall 

yet arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom 

again. 
Bright "through the eternal year of 

Love's triumpliaut reigu. 



Ethel Lynn Beers. 



THE PICKET-GUARD. 

"All quiet along the Potomac," 
they say, 
"Except, now and then, a stray 
picket 
Is shot as he walks on his beat to 
and fi-o. 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 



'Tis nothing — a private or two, now 
and then, 
Will not count in the news of the 
battle; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the 
men 
Moaning out, all alone, the death- 
rattle." 



36 



BEERS. 



All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
Where the soldiers lie peacefully 
dreaming; 
Their tents, in the rays of the clear 
autumn moon 
Or the light of the watch-fires, are 
gleanung. 
A trenudous sigh, as the gentle night- 
wind 
Through the forest-leaves softly is 
creeping; 
While the stars up above, with their 
glittering eyes, 
Keep guard — for the army is 
sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone 
sentry's tread 
As he tramps from the rock to the 
fountain. 
And thinks of the two in the low 
trundle-bed. 
Far away in the cot on the moun- 
tain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, 
dark and grim. 
Grows gentle with memories 
tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the chil- 
dren asleep — 
For their mother — may Heaven 
defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as 
brightly as then. 
That night when the love yet un- 
spoken. 
Leaped up to his li])s — when low- 
nuu'mured vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over 
his eyes, 
He dashes off tears that are well- 
ing, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its 
place, 
As if to keep down the heart- 
swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted 
pine-tree. 
The footstep is lagging and weary; 



Yet onward he goes through the 
broad belt of light. 
Toward the shade of the forest so 
dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night wind that rus- 
tled the leaves ? 
Was it moonlight so wondrovisly 
flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle — "Ah! Mary, 
good-by ! ' ' 
And the life-blood is ebbing and 
plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to- 
night. 
No sound save the rush of the 
river; 
While soft falls the dew on the face 
of the dead — 
The picket's off duty forever! 



WEIGHINO THE BABY. 

' ' How many pounds does the baby 
weigh — 
Baby who came but a month ago ? 
How many pounds from the crown- 
ing curl 
To the rosy point of the restless 
toe'?" 

Grandfather ties the 'kei-chief knot. 
Tenderly guides the swinging 
weight, 

And carefully over his glasses peers 
To read the record, "only eight." 

Softly the echo goes around: 

The father laughs at the tiny girl ; 
The fair young mother sings the 
words. 
While grandmother smooths the 
golden curl. 

And stooping above the precious 
thing, 
Nestles a kiss within a prayer, 
Miu-muring softly '• Little one. 

Grandfather did not weigh you 
fair." 






BE A UMON T — BENNE TT. 



37 



Nobody weighed the baby's smile, 
Or the love that came with the 
helpless one; 

Nobody weighed the threads of care. 
From which a woman's life is spun. 

No index tells the mighty worth 
Of a little baby's quiet breath — 

A soft, unceasing metronome, 
Patient and faithful until death. 

Nobody weighed the baby's soul. 
For here on earth no weights there 
be 



That could avail: God only knows 
Its value in eternity. 

Only eight pounds to hold a soul 
That seeks no angel's silver wing. 

But shrines it in this human guise. 
Within so frail and small a thing! 

Oh, mother I laugh your merry note. 
Be gay and glad, but do n't for- 
get 
From baby's eyes looks out a soul 
That claims a home in Eden 
yet. 



Francis Beaumont. 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



Mortality, behold and fear 
What a change of flesh is here I 
Think how many royal bones 
Sleep within these heaps of stones: 
Here they lie, had realms and lands. 
AVho now want strength to stir their 

Jmnds, 
AVhei'e from their pulpits seal'd with 

dust 
They preach, " In greatness is no 

trust." 



Here's an acre sown indeed 
With the richest royallest seed 
That the earth did e'er suck in 
Since the first man died for sin: 
Here the bones of birth have cried 
"Though gods they were, as men 

they died!" 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings: 
Here's a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 



William Cox Bennett. 



THE SEASONS. 

A I5LUE-EYKI) child that sits amid 
the noon, 
O'erhung with a laburnum's droop- 
ing sprays. 
Singing her little songs, while softly 
round 
Along the grass the che(iuered sun- 
shine plays. 

All beauty that is throned in woman- 
hood 
Pacing a simnner garden's foim- 
tained walks. 



That stoops to smooth a glossy span- 
iel down 
To hide her flushing cheek from 
one who talks. 

A happy mother with her fair-faced 
girls, 
In whose sweet spring again hei- 
youth she sees, 
With shout and dance and laugh and 
bound and song. 
Stripping in autunni orchards, 
laden ti-ees. 






38 



BENSEL. 



An aged woman in a wintry room — 
Frost on the pane, without the 
whirling snow — 
Reading old "letters of her far-off 
youth, 
Of sorrows past and joys of long 
ago. 



SUArMER nAix. 

O GENTLE, gentle summer rain, 
Let not the silver lily pine. 

The drooping lily pine in vain 
To feel that dewy touch of thine, 

To drink thy freshness once again, 

O gentle, gentle summer rain ! 



In heat, the landscape quivering lies; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree; 
Through patching air and purple 
skies 
The earth looks up in vain for 
thee : 
For thee, for thee it looks in vain, 
O gentle, gentle sunnner rain ! 

Come thou, and brim the meadow 
streams, 
And soften all the hills with mist; 
O falling dew from burning dreams. 
By thee shall herb and flower be 
kissed : 
And earth shall bless thee yet again, 
O gentle, gentle summer rain I 



James Berry Bensel. 



IN ARABIA. 

" Choose thou between I " and to his 
enemy 
The Arab chief a brawny hand dis- 
played. 
Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen 
sea. 
Gleamed the gray scimetar's en- 
graven blade. 

" Choose thou between death at my 
hand and thine! 
Close in my power my vengeance 
1 may wreak: 
Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like 
mine 
Is noble still. Thou hast thy 
choosing — speak ! ' ' 

And Ackbar stood. About him all 
the band 
That hailed his captor chieftain, 
with grave eyes. 
His answer waited, while that heavy 
hand 
Stretched like a bar between him 
and the skies. 

Straight in the face before him Ack- 
bar sent 
A sneer of scorn, and raised his 
noble head ; 



"Strike!" and the desert monarch, 
as content, 
Eehung the weapon at his gii'dle 
red. 

Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted 
high 
His arms toward the heaven so far 
and l)lue. 
Wherein the sunset rays began to 
die, — 
While o'er the band a deeper 
silence grew. 

"Strike! I am ready! Didst thou 
think to see 
A son of Ghera spill upon the 
dust 
His noble blood ? Didst hope to 
have my knee 
Bend at thy feet, and with one 
mighty thrust 

" The life thou hatest flee before thee 
here '? 
Shame on thee! on thy race! art 
thou the one 
Who hast so long thy vengeance 
counted dear ? 
My hate is greater; I did strike thy 
son. 



BLAKE. 



39 



"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before 
my face : 
And by the swiftest courser of my 
sttxd 
Sent to thy door his corpse. Aye, 
one might trace 
Their flight across the desert by 
his blood. 

" Strike! for my hate is greater than 
thy own!" 
Btit with a frown the Arab moved 
away, 
Walked to a distant palm and stood 
alone, 
With eyes that looked where pur- 
ple mountains lay. 

This for an instant: then he turned 
again 
Toward the place where Ackbar 
waited still, 
Walking as one benumbed with bit- 
ter pain, 
Or with a hateful mission to fulfil. 



"Strike, for I hate thee!"' Ackbar 
cried once more. 
" Nay. but my hate I cannot find!" 
said now 
His enemy. " Thy freedom I restore. 
Live; life were more than death to 
such as thou." 

So with his gift of life the Bedouin 
slept 
That night imtroubled : but when 
dawn l)roke through 
The purple East, and o'er his eye- 
lids crept 
The long, thin fingers of the light, 
lie drew 

A heavy breath and woke : above him 
shone 
A lifted dagger— "Yea, he gave 
thee life. 
But I give death!" came in fierce 
undertone. 
And Ackbar died. It was dead 
Noumid' s wife. 



William Blake. 



THE TIGER. 

Tiger! Tiger! binning bright. 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful synunetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fii'e of thine eyes '? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thine 

heart '? 
And when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread liand forged thy dread 

feet ? 



AMiat the hammer? what the 

chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their 

spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears. 
Did He smile his work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make 

thee ? 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright. 
In the forests of the night; 
What innnortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetiy ? 



40 



BLAMIRE — BLOOMFIELD. 



Susanna Blamire. 



WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MIXE. 

What ails this heart o' mine '? 

What ails this watery ee ? 
What gars me a' turn pale as death 

When I take leave o' thee ? 
When thou art far awa', 

Thou 'It dearer grow to me; 
But change o' place and change o' folk 

May gar thy fancy jee. 

When I gae out at e'en, 

Or walk at morning air, 
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say. 

I used to meet thee there. 



Then I'll sit down and cry, 

And live aneath tlie tive, 
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 

I '11 ca' 't a word frae thee. 

I '11 hie me to the bower 

That thou wi' roses tied. 
And where wi' mony a blushing 
bud 

I strove myself to hide. 
I '11 doat on ilka spot 

AVhere I ha'e been wi' thee; 
And ca' to mind some kindly 
word, 

By ilka l)uni and tree. 



Robert Bloomfield. 



[From The Farmer's Boy.] 
A SPUING DA Y. 

Advancing Spring profusely spreads 

abioad 
Flowers of all hues, with sweetest 

fragrance stored ; 
Where'er she treads Love gladdens 

every plain, 
Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid 

train ; 
Sweet Hope with conscious brow be- 
fore her flies, 
Anticipating wealth from Summer 

skies ; 
All Nature feels her renovating sway ; 
The sheep-fed pasture, and the 

meadow gay; 
And trees, and shrubs, no longer 

budding seen. 
Display the new-grown branch of 

lighter green; 
On airy downs the idling shepherd 

lies, 
And sees to-morrow in the marbled 

skies. 



[From The Farmer's Boy.] 
A TEMPEST. 

Anon tired laborers bless their 

sheltering home. 
When midnight, and the frightful 

tempest come. 
The farmer wakes, and sees, with 

silent dread. 
The angry shafts of Heaven gleam 

round his bed ; 
The bursting cloud reiterated roars. 
Shakes his straw roof, and jars his 

bolted doors: 
The slow-winged storm along the 

troubled skies 
Spreads its dark course: the wind 

begins to rise; 
And full-leafed elms, his dwelling's 

shade by day. 
With mimic thunder give its fury 

way : 
Sounds in the chimney-top a doleful 

peal 
Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rat- 
tling hail ; 



With tenfold danger low the tem- 
pest bends, 

And quick and strong the sulphin'ons 
flame descends: 

The frightened mastiff fi-om his ken- 
nel flies. 

And cringes at the door with piteous 
cries. . . . 



Where now's the trifler! where the 

child of pride ? 
These are the moments when the 

heart is tried! 
Nor lives the man, with conscience 

e'er so clear. 
But feels a solcnni, reverential fear; 
Feels too a joy relieve his aching 

breast, 
When the spent storm hath howled 

Itself to rest. 
Still, -welcome beats the long-con- 
tinued shower. 
And sleep protracted, comes with 

double power; 
Calm dreams of bliss bring on the 

moining sun. 
For every barn is fllled, and Harvest 

done ! 



[From The Farmer^ X Boij.] 
HAIIVESTING. 

Hakk I where the sweeping scythe 

now rips along: 
Each sturdy mower, emulous and 

strong. 
Whose wi'ithing form meridian heat 

defies. 
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew 

tries ; 
Prostrates the waving treasure at his 

feet. 
But spares the rising clover, short 

and sweet. 
Come, Health! come, Jollity! light- 
footed, come; 
Here hold your revels, and make this 

your home. 
Each heart awaits and hails you as 

its own; 



Each moistened brow, that scorns to 
wear a frown : 

The unpeopled dwelling mourns its 
tenants strayed: 

E'en the domestic laughing dairy- 
maid 

Hies to the field, the general toil to 
share. 

Meanwhile the farmer quits his 
elbow-chair. 

His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and 
his ease. 

And braves the sultry beams, and 
gladly sees 

His gates thrown open, and his team 
abroad. 

The ready group attendant on his 
word. 

To turn the swarth. the (piiveriug 
load to i-ear. 

Or ply the busy rake, the land to 
clear. 

Summer's light garb itself now cum- 
brous grown, 

Each his thin doublet in the shade 
throws down; 

Where oft the mastiff skulks with 
half-shut eye. 

And rouses at the stranger passing 
by: 

Whilst unrestrained the social con- 
verse flows. 

And every breast Love's powerful 
impulse knows. 

And rival wits with more than rustic 
grace 

Confess the presence of a pretty face. 



For, lo! encircled there, the lovely 

maid. 
In youth's own bloom and native 

smiles arrayed; 
Her hat awry, divested of her gown. 
Her creaking stays of leather, stout 

and brown ; — 
Invidious barrier! Why art thou so 

high, 
Wlien the slight covering of her neck 

slips by. 
There half revealing to the eager 

sight, 
Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely 

white ? 



42 



BLOOMFIELD. 



In many a local tale of harmless 

mirth, 
And many a jest of momentary 

birth, 
She bears a part, and as she stops to 

speak. 
Strokes back the ringlets from her 

glowing cheek. 



TO HIS MOTHEirS SPIXDLE. 

The hand that wore thee smooth is 

cold, and spins 
No more! Debility pressed hard, 

around 
The seat of life, and terrors filled her 

brain, — 
Nor causeless terrors. Giants grim 

and bold. 
Three mighty ones she feared to 

meet: — they came — 
VViNTEii, Old AciE, and Povekty. 

— all came; 

And when Death beheld 
Her tribulation, he fulfilled his task. 
And to her trembling hand and heart 

at once, 
Cried, " Sjyin no more.''' — Thou then 

wert left half filled 
With this soft downy fleece, such as 

she wound 
Through all her days, she who could 

spin so well. 
Half filled wert thou — half finished 

when she died ! 
— Half finished ? 'Tis the motto of 

the world I 
We spin vain threads, and strive, 

and die 
With sillier things than spindles on 

our hands! 

Then feeling, as 1 do, resistlessly, 
The bias set upon my soul for verse; 
Oh, should old age still find my brain 

at work, 
And Death, o'er some poor fragment 

striding, cry 
"Hold! spin no more!" grant, 

Heaven, that purity 



Of thought and texture, may assimi- 
late 

That fragment unto thee, in useful- 
ness, 

In worth, and snowy innocence. 
Then shall 

The village school-mistress, shine 
brighter through 

The exit of her boy; and both shall 
live. 

And virtue triumph too; and virtue's 
tears. 

Like Heaven's pure blessings, fall 
upon their grave. 



LOVE OF THE COUNTRY. 

[Written at Clai-e Hall, Herts, June, 1804.] 

Welcome, silence! welcome, peace! 

Oh, most welcome, holy shade ! 
Thus I prove, as years increase, 

My heart and soul for quiet made. 
Thus [ fix my firm belief 

While rapture's rushing tears de- 
scend. 
That every flower and every leaf 

Is moral Truth's unerring friend. 

I would not for a world of gold 

That Nature's lovely face should 
tire; 
Fountain of blessings yet untold: 

Pure source of intellectual fire! 
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song. 

Unquickened midst tlie world's riide 
strife. 
Shall sweet retirement render strong, 

And morning silence bring to life^ 

Then tell me not that I shall grow 
Forloi'n, that fields and woods will 
cloy; 
From Nature and her changes flow 

An everlasting tide of joy. 
I grant that sunnner heats will binn, 
That keen will come the frosty 
night; 
But both shall please: and each in 
turn 
Yield Reason's most supreme de- 
liirht. 



BOKER. 



43 



Build me a slirine, and I could kneel 
To rural gods, or prostrate fall ; 

Did I not see, did I not feel. 
That one Gke at Spirit governs all. 

O Heaven, permit that I may lie 



Where o'er my corse green branches 
wave ; 
And those who from life's tumult fly 
With kindred feelings, press my 
grave. 



GLEAXEirS SOXG. 

Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored 
With the joys of some bride, and the wealth of her lord ; 

Of her chariots and dresses, 

And worldly caresses. 
And servants that fly when she's waited upon: 
But what can she boast if she weds unbeloved ? 
Can she e'er feel the joy that one morning I proved. 
When I put on my new gown and waited for John ? 

These fields, my dear Ellen, I knew them of yore. 
Yet to me they ne'er look'd so enchanting before; 

The distant bells ringing, 

The birds round us singing. 
For pleasure is pure when affection is won: 
They told me the troubles and cares of a wife ; 
But I loved him; and that was the pride of my life, 
When I put on my new gown and waited for John. 

He shouted and ran, as he leapt from the stile ; 
And what in my bosom was passing the while ? 

For love knows the blessing 

Of ardent caressing. 
When virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone. 
The sunshine of Fortune you say is divine; 
True love and the sunshine of Nature were mine, 
When I put on my new gown and waited for John. 



George Henry Boker. 



ODE TO A MOUNTAIN OAK. 

Proub mountain giant, whose majes- 
tic face. 

From thy high watch-tower on the 
steadfast rock, 

Looks calmly o'er the trees that 
throng thy base. 

How long iiast thou withstood the 
tempest's shock ? 

How long hast thou looked down on 
yonder vale 
Sleeping in sun before thee; 



Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the 
gale 
Steer its white, drifting sails just 
o'er thee ? 

Strong link 'twixt vanished ages ! 
Thou hast a sage and reverend 
look; 
As if life's struggle, through its 
varied stages, 
Wei'e stamped on thee, as in a 
book. 



44 



BOKER. 



Thou hast no voice to tell what thou 
hast seen, 

Save a low moaning in thy troubled 
leaves ; 

And canst but point thy scars, and 
shake thy head, 

With solemn warning, in the sun- 
beam's sheen: 

And show how Time the mightiest 
thing bereaves, 

By the sere leaves that rot upon thy 
bed. 

Type of long-suffering power! 

Even In my gayest hour. 
Thou 'dst still my tongue, and send 

my spirit far. 
To wander in a labyrinth of thought; 
For thou hast waged with Time 

unceasing war. 
And out of pain hast strength and 

beauty brought. 
Thou amidst storms and tempests 

hadst thy birth. 
Upon these bleak and scantly-shel- 

tering rocks. 
Nor nuich save storm and wrath 

hast known on earth ; 
Yet nobly hast thou bode the tiercest 

shocks. 
That Circumstance can pour on 

patient Worth. 

I see thee springing, in the vernal 
time, 

A sapling weak, from out the bar- 
ren stone. 

To dance with May upon the moun- 
tain peak; 

Pale leaves put forth to greet the 
genial clime. 

And roots shot down life's suste- 
nance to seek. 

While mere existence was a joy 
alone — 
O thou wert happy then ! 

On summer's heat thy tinkling leaf- 
lets fed. 

Each fibre toughened, and a little 
crown 

Of green upon thy modest brow was 
spread, 

To catch the rain, and shake it gently 
down. 



But then came autumn, when 
Thy dry and tattered leaves fell 
dead ; 
And sadly on the gale 
Thou drop' dst them one by 
one — 
Drop'dst them, with a low, sad 
wail. 
On the cold, unfeeling stone. 
Next Winter seized thee in his iron 
grasp. 
And shook thy bruised and strain- 
ing form ; 
Or locked thee in his icicle's cold 

clasp. 
And piled upon thy head the shorn 

cloud's snowy fleece. 
Wert thou not joyful, in this bitter 

storm. 
That the green honors, which erst 

decked thy head. 
Sage Autumn's slow decay, had 

mildly shed ? 
Else, with their weight, they'd given 

thy ills increase. 
And dragged thee helpless from thy 
uptorn bed. 



Year after year, in kind or adverse 
fate. 

Thy branches stretched, and thy 
young twigs put forth. 

Nor changed thy nature with the 
season's date: 

Whether thou wrestled' st with the 
gusty north. 

Or beat the driving rain to glittering 
froth. 

Or shook the snow-storm from thy 
arms of might. 

Or drank the balmy dews on sum- 
mer's night; — 

Laughing in sunshine, writhing in 
the storm. 
Yet wert thou still the same ! 
Summer spread forth thy tower- 
ing form. 
And Winter strengthened thy great 
frame. 
Achieving thy destiny 
On went'st thou sturdily. 

Shaking thy green flags in triumph 
and jubilee! 



BOKER. 



45 



From thy secure and sheltering 

branch 
The wild bird pours her glad and 

fearless lay, 
That, with the sunbeams, falls upon 

the vale, 
Adding fresh brightness to the smile 

of day, 
'Neath those broad boughs the youth 

has told love's tale; 
And thou hast seen his hardy feat- 
ures blanch, 
Heard his snared heart beat like a 

prisoned bird, 
Fluttering with fear, before the 

fowler laid; 
While his bold figure shook at every 

word — 
The strong man trembling at a 

timid maid ! 
And thou hast smiled upon their 

children's play: 
Seen them grow old, and gray, and 

pass away. 

Heard the low prattle of the thought- 
less child. 
Age's cold wisdom, and the lessons 

mild 
Which patient mothers to their off- 
spring say ; — 
Yet art thou still the samel 

Man may decay ; 
Race after race may pass away ; 
The great may perish, and their veiy 
fame 
Rot day by day — 
Rot noteless with their once inspired 
clay: 
.Still, as at their birth. 
Thou stretchest thy long arms above 
the earth — 
Type of unbending Willi 
Type of majestic, self-sustaining 

Power ! 
Elate in sunshine, firm when tem- 
pests lower. 
May thy calm strength my wavering 
spirit fill! 
O let me learn from thee, 
Thou proud and steadfast tree, 
To bear unmurmuring what stern 
Time may send ; 



Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests 
bend : 
But calmly stand like thee. 
Though wrath and storm shake 
me. 
Though vernal hopes in yellow 

Autiunn end, 
And strong in truth work out my 
destiny. 
Type of long-suffering Power! 
Type of mibending AVill! 
Strong in the tempest's hour, 
Bright when the storm is still; 
Rising from every contest with an 

unbroken heart. 
Strengthened by eveiy struggle, 
"emblem of might thou art! 
Sign of what man can compass, spite 

of an adverse state. 
Still, from thy rocky summit, teach 
us to war with fate! 



AWAKING OF THE POETICAL 
FACULTi'. 

All day I heard a humming in my 

ears. 
A buzz of many voices, and a throng 
Of swarming nmnbers, passing 

with a song 
Measured and stately as the rolling 

spheres'. 
I saw the sudden light of lifted 

spears. 
Slanted at once against some mon- 
ster wrong; 
And then a fluttering scarf which 

might belong 
To some sweet maiden in her 

morn of years. 
I felt the chilling damp of sunless 

glades. 
Horrid with gloom; anon, the 

breath of May 
Was blown around me, and the 

lulling play 
Of dripping fountains. Yet the 

lights and shades. 
The waving scarfs, the battle's 

grand parades. 
Seemed but vague shadows of 

that wondrous lay. 



46 



BOKER. 



TO EXGLAND. 

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's 

liberty! 
Thou rock of shelter rising from 

the wave, 
Sole refuge to the overwearied 

brave 
Who planned, arose, and battled to 

be free, 
Fell undeterred, then sadly turned 

to thee ; — 
Saved the free spirit from their 

country's grave. 
To rise again, and animate the 

slave. 
When God shall ripen all things. 

Britons, ye 
Who guard the sacred outpost, not 

in vain 
Hold your proud peril! Freemen 

nndefiled. 
Keep watch and ward! Let battle- 
ments be piled 
Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, 

till the main 
Sink under them; and if your 

courage wane. 
Through force or fraud, look west- 
ward to your child ! 



LOVE SONNETS. 

How canst thou call my modest love 

impure, 
Being thyself the holy source of 

all? 
Can ugly darkness from the fair 

sun fall '? 
Or nature's compact be so insecure. 
That saucy weeds may sprout up 

and endure 
Where gentle flowers were sown ? 

The brooks that crawl. 
With lazy whisper's, through the 

lilies tall. 
Or rattle o'er the pebbles, will 

allure 
With no feigned sweetness, if their 

fount be sMeet. 
So thou, the sun whence all my 

light doth flow — 



Thou, sovereign law by which my 

fancies grow — 
Thou, fount of every feeling, slow or 

fleet — 
Against thyself would' st aim a 

treacherous blow, 
Slaying thy honor with thy own 

conceit. 

Why shall I chide the hand of wil- 
ful Time 
AVhen he assaults thy wondrous 

store of charms '? 
Why charge the gray-beard with a 

wanton crime ? 
Or stiive to daunt him with my 

shrill alarms ? 
Or seek to lull him with a silly 

rhyme: 
So he, forgetful, pause upon his 

arms. 
And leave thy beauties in their 

noble prime. 
The sole survivors of his grievous 

harms ? 
Alas! my love, though FU indeed 

bemoan 
The fatal ruin of thy majesty ; 
Yet ril remember that to Time 

alone 
I owed thy birth, thy charms' matu- 
rity. 
Thy crowning love, with which he 

vested me. 
Nor can reclaim, though all the 

rest be flown. 

In this deep hush and quiet of my 

soul, 
AVhen life runs low, and all my 

senses stay 
Their daily riot; when my weai'ied 

clay 
Resigns its functions, and, without 

control 
Of selfish passion, my essential whole 
Rises in purity, to make survey 
Of those poor deeds that wear my 

days away ; 
When in my ear I hear the dis- 
tant toir 
Of bells that nuu'mur of my comiuE; 

knell. 



And all things seem a show and 

mockery — 
Life, and life's actions, noise and 

vanity; 
I ask my mournful heart if it can tell 
If all be truth which 1 protest to 

thee : 
And my heart answers, solemnly, 

" 'Tis well." 



I HAVE been mounted on life's top- 
most wave. 
Until my forehead kissed the daz- 
zling cloud ; 
I have been dashed beneath the 

murky shioud 
That yawns between the watery 
crests. I rave, 
Sometimes, like cursed Orestes; 
sometimes lave 
My limbs in tlews of asphodel; or, 

bowed 
With ton-id heat, I moan to heaven 

aloud. 
Or shrink with Winter in his icy 
cave. 
Xow peace broods over me ; now sav- 
age rage 
Spurns me across the world. Nor 

am I free 
From nightly visions, when the 
. pictured page 
Of sleep unfolds its varied leaves to 
me. 
Changing as often as the mimic 
stage ; — 
And all this, lady, through my love 
for thee ! 



Sometimes, in bitter fancy, I bewail 

This spell of love, and wish the 
cause removed ; 

Wish I had never seen, or, seeing, 
not loved 

So utterly that passion should pre- 
vail 
O'er self-regard, and thoughts of 
thee assail 

Those inmost bari'iei's which so 
long have proved 

Unconquerable, when such defence 
behoved. 



But, ah! my treaclierous lieart 
doth ever fail 
To ratify the sentence of my mind; 

For when conviction strikes me to 
tlie core, 

I swear 1 love thee fondlier than 
before ; 
And were I now all free and uncon- 
ttned, 

Loose as the action of the shore- 
less wind. 

My slavish heart would sigh for 
bonds once more. 



Ah! let me live on memories of 

old,— 
The precious relics I have set aside 
From life's poor venture; things 

that yet abide 
My ill-paid labor, shining, like pure 

gold. 
Amid the dross of cheated liopes 

whose hold 
Dropped at the touch of action. 

Let me glide 
Down the smooth past, review 

that day of pride 
When each to each our mutual 

passion told — 
When love grew frenzy in thy blaz- 
ing eye. 
Fear shone heroic, caution quailed 

before 

hot, resistless kisses — when 

we bore 
conscience, destiny, down, 

down for aye. 
Beneath victorious love, and thou 

didst cry, 
"Strike, God ! life's cup is run- 
ning o'er and o'er." 



My 

Time 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

Close liis eyes; his work is done! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sim, 
Hand of man, or kiss of woman '? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low! 




48 



BO NAB. 



As man may, he fought his fight, 


Lay him low, lay him low. 


Proved his truth by his endeavor; 


In the clover or the snow ! 


Let him sleep in solemn night. 


What cares he ? he cannot know: 


Sleep forever, and forever. 


Lay him low! 


Lay him low, lay him low. 




In the clover or the snow! 


Leave him to God's watching eye. 


What cares he ? he cannot know : 


Trust him to the hand tliat "made 


Lay him low ! 


him. 




Mortal love weeps idly by: 


Fold him in his country's stars. 


God alone has power to aid him. 


Roll the drum and fire the vol- 


Lay him low, lay him low, 


ley! 


In the clover or the snow! 


What to him are all- our wais, 


AVhat cares he ? he cannot know : 


What but death-beniocking folly ? 


Lay him low! 



HORATIUS BONAR. 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the waking and the sleeping. 

Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, (tnd ho'iie ! 

Sweet hope ! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon; 

Beyond the shining and "the shading. 

Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, re.st, (ind /toiiic .' 

Sweet hope ! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon. 

Beyond the calming and the fretting. 

Beyond remembering and forgetting, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home ! 

Sweet hope ! 

Lord, tarry not, hut come. 

Beyond the gatheringand the strowing 

I shall be soon; 
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. 
Beyond the coming and the going, 

I shall be soon. 



Love, rest, and home! 

Sweet hope ! 

Lord, tarry not, hut come. 

Beyond the parting and tlu; meeting 

I shall be soon; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse's fever-beating, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not. but coine. 

Beyond the frost-chain and the fever 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the rock-waste and the river. 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
1 shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home! 
Siceet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 



THE IXXEli CALM. 

Cal.m me, my God, and keep me calm, 
While these hot breezes l)low; 

B(^ like the night-dew's cooling balm 
Upon earth's fevered brow. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
Soft resting on thy breast; 

Soothe me with holy hymn and jisalm 
And bid my spirit rest. 



BOSTWICK. 



Calm me, my God, and keep me 
calm. 

Let thine outstretched wing 
Be like the shade of Elini's palm 

Beside her desert spring. 

Yes, keep me calm, though loud and 
rude. 

The sounds my ear that greet, 
Calm in the closet's solitude. 

Calm in the bustling street; 

Calm in the hour of buoyant health, 

Calm in my hour of pain. 
Calm in my poverty or wealth. 

Calm in my loss or gain; 



Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
Like Him who bore my shame. 

Calm mid the threatening, taunting 
throng. 
Who hate thy holy name; 

Calm when the great world's news 
with power 

My listening spirit stir; 
Let not the tidings of the hour 

E'er find too fond an ear; 

Calm as the ray of sun or star 
AVhich storms assail in vain, 

Moving unruffled through earth's war, 
The eternal calm to gain. 



Helen Barron Bostwick. 



URVASI. 

'Tis a story told by Kalidasa, — 

Hindoo poet — in melodious rhyme, 
How with train of maidens, young 
Urvasi 
Came to keep great Indra's festal 
time. 

'T was her part in worshipful confes- 
sion 
Of the god-name on that sacred day. 
Walking flower-crowned in the long 
procession, 
" 1 love Puru-shotta-ma " to say. 

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, 
Heaven-descended, soon to heaven 
witlidrawn, 
Fairer than the moon-flower of the 
Ganges. 
Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn. 

But it happened that the gentle 
maiden 
Loved one Puru - avas, — f atef id 
name I — 
And her heart, with its sweet secret 
laden, 
Faltered when her time of utter- 
ance came. 



"I love" — then she stopped, and 
people wondered ; 
"1 love" — she nuist guard her 
secret well ; 
Then from sweetest lips that ever 
blundered, 
" I love Puru-avas," trembling fell. 

Ah, what terror seized on poor Ur- 
vasi ! 
Misty grew the violets of her eyes, 
And her form bent like a broken daisy 
While around her rose the mocking 
cries. 

But great Indra said, "The maid 
shall marry 
Him whose image in her faitliful 
heart 
.She so near to that of God doth carry, 
Scarce her lips can keep their 
names apart." 

Call it then not weakness or dissem- 
bling 
If, in striving the high name to 
reach. 
Through our voices runs the tender 
trembling 
Of an eailhly name too dear for 
speech ! 



50 



BOTTA — BOURDILLON. 



Ever dwells the lesser in the great- 
er; 
In GocFs love the human: we by 
these 



Know he holds Love's simplest stam- 
mering sweeter 
Than cold phrase of wordy Phar- 
isees. 



Anna Lynch Botta. 



THE LESSON OF THE BEE. 

The honey-bee that wanders all day 
long 

The field, the woodland, and the gar- 
den o'er, 

To gather in his fragrant winter 
store ; 

Humming in calm content his quiet 
song. 

Seeks not alone the rose's glowing 
breast. 

The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, 

But from all rank and noxious weeds 
he sips, 

The single drop of sweetness closely 
pressed 

Within the poison chalice. Thus, if 
we, 

Seek only to draw forth the hidden 
sweet 

In all the varied human tlowers we 
meet 

In the wide garden of luunanity. 

And, like the bee, if home the spoil 
we bear. 

Hived in our hearts, it turns to nec- 
tar there. 



LOVE. 

Go forth in life, O friend ! not seeking 
love, 
A mendicant that with imploring 

eye 
And outstretched hand asks of the 
passers-by 
The alms his strong necessities may 

move : 
For such poor love, to pity near allied. 
Thy generous spirit may not stoop 
and wait, 
A suppliant whose prayer may be 
denied [gate: 

Like a spurned beggar's at a palace- 
But thy heart's affluence lavish un- 
controlled, — 
The largest of thy love give full 
and free, 
As monarchs in their progress scatter 
gold ; 
Andbe tliy heart like the exhaust- 
less sea, 
That nuist its wealth of cloud and 

dcM' bestow. 
Through tributary streams or ebb or 
flow. 



Francis W. Bourdillon. 



LIGHT. 

The night has a thousand eyes. 

And the day has but one; 
Yet the light of th(> bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When its day is done. 



LOVE'S REWARD. 

Foi{ Love I labored all the day. 
Through morning chill and midday 
heat, 
For surely with the evening gray, 
I thought. Love's guerdon shall be 
sweet. 

At eventide, with weary limb, 
1 brought my labors to the si)ot 



BOWLES. 



51 



Where Love had bid me come to him ; 
Thither I came, but found him not. 

For he with idle folks had gone 
To dance the hours of night away ; 

And I that toiled was left alone, 
Too weary now to dance or play. 



THE DIFFERENCE. 

Sweeter than voices in the scented 

hay, 
Or laughing children gleaning ears 

that stray, 



Or Christmas songs that shake the 

snows above. 
Is the first cuckoo, when he comes 
with love. 



Sadder than birds in simless sinnmer 

eves. 
Or drip of rain-drops on the fallen 

leaves. 
Or wail of wintry waves on frozen 

shore. 
Is spring that comes, but brings us 

love no more. 



William Lisle Bowles. 



TO TIME. 

Time ! who know'st a lenient hand 

to lay 
Softest on sorrow's wound, and 

slowly thence — 
Lulling to sad repose the weary 

sense — 
The faint pang stealest, unperceived 

away ; 
On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
And think when thou hast dried 

the bitter tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul 

held dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
And meet life's peaceful evening with 

a smile — 
As some lone bird, at day's depart- 
ing hour, [showei-, 

Sings in the sunbeam of the transient 

Forgetful, lliough its wings are wet 
the while: 

Yet, all ! how nuich must that poor 
heart endure 

AVhich hopes from thee, and thee 
aloue, a cure! 



THE GREENWOOD. 

Oh! when 'tis summer weather. 
And the yellow bee, with fairy 
soimd. 
The waters clear is humming round. 
And the cuckoo sings unseen. 
And the leaves are waving green, — 
Oh! then 'tis sweet. 
In some retreat, 
To hear the murmuring dove, 
With those whom on earth alone we 

love. 
And to wind through the greenwood 
together. 

But when 't is winter weather, 
And crosses grieve, 
And friends deceive, 
And rain and sleet 
The lattice beat, — 
Oh ! then 't is sweet, 
To sit and sing 

Of the friends with whom, in the 
days of Spring, 

We roamed through the greenwood 
together. 



52 



BRACKETT— BRAINARD. 



Anna C. Brackett. 

IN GAllFIELD'S DANGKll. 

Is it not possible that all the love 

From all these million hearts, which breathless turns 

To one hushed room where silent footsteps move, 

May have some power on life that feebly bui'ns '? 

Must it not have some power in some strange way, 

Some strange, wise way, beyond our tangled ken. 

When far and Avide, from sea to sea to-day. 

Even in quiet fiekls, hard-handed men 

Pause in their toil to ask the passer-by 

" What news ? " and then, " We cannot spare him yet! " 

Surely no tide can powerless rise so high. 

Bear on, brave heart! The land does not forget. 

Thou yet shalt be upborne to life and strength again 

On this flood-tide of love of millions of brave men. 



Mary E. Bradley. 



BE YOND RECALL. 



There was a time when death and I 
Met face to face together: 

I was but young indeed to die, 
And it was summer weather; 

One happy year a wedded wife, 

Yet I was slipping out of life. 

You knelt beside me, and I heard, 
As from some far-off distance, 

A bitter cry that dimly stirred 
My soul to make resistance. 



You thought nie dead: you called 

my name. 
And back from Death itself I came. 

But oh ! that you had made no sign, 
That I had heard no crying ! 

For now the yearning voice is mine. 
And there is no replying: 

Death never coidd so cruel be 

As Life — and you — have proved to 
me! 



John G. C. Brainard. 



EPITHALAMliWr. 

I SAW two clouds at morning. 
Tinged by the rising sun, " 

And in the dawn they floated on, 
And mingled into one; [blest. 

1 thought that morning cloud was 

It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting. 

And join their course with silent force, 
In peace each other greeting; 



Calm was their course through banks 
of green. 

While dimpling eddies played be- 
tween. 

Such be your gentle motion. 

Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's 
stream. 
Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall 

cease — 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 



Mary Bolles Branch. 



THE PETRIFIED FEUX. 

In a valley, centuries ago, 

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and 

slender, 
Veining delicate and fibres tender; 
Waving when the wind crept down 

so low ; 
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass 

grew round it. 
Playful sunbeams darted in and 

found it. 
Drops of dew stole in by night, 

and crowned it, 
But no foot of man e'er trod that 

way ; 
Earth was young and keeping holi- 
day. 

Monster fishes swam the silent main, 

Stately forests waved their giant 
l^ranches. 

Mountains hurled their snowy ava- 
lanches. 
Mammoth creatures stalked across 
the plain ; 

Nature revelled in grand mysteries; 

But the little fern vvas not of these. 

Did not number with the hills and 
trees. 

Only grew and waved its wild 
sweet way. 

No one came to note it day by day. 



Earth, one time, put on a frolic 

mood, 
Heaved the locks and changed the 

mighty motion 
Of the deep, strong currents of the 

ocean ; 
Moved the plain and shook the 

haughty wood. 
Crushed" the little form in soft 

moist clay. 
Covered it. and hid it safe away, 
O, the long, long centuries since 

that day I 
O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost, 
Since tluit useless little fern was 

lost ! 

Useless ! Lost ! There came a 

thoughtful man 
Searching Nature's secrets, far and 

deep ; 
From a fissure in a rocky steep 
He withdrew a stone, o'er which 

there ran 
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design. 
Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and 

fine. 
And the fern's life lay in every 

line ! 
So. I think, God hides some souls 

away, 
Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 



Anne Bronte. 



IF THIS BE ALL. 

O God! if this indeed l)e all 

That life can show to me; 
If on my aching brow may fall 

No freshening dew from Thee; — 
If with no brighter light than this 

Tlie lamp of Hope may glow. 
And I may only dream of bliss. 

And wake to weary woe! — 
If friendship's solace must decay 

When other joys are gone. 



And love must keep so far away. 

While I go wandering on, — 
Wandering" and toiling without gain, 

The slave of others" will. 
With constant care and frequent pain. 

Desi)ised. forgotten still. 
Grieving to look on vice and sin. 

Yet powerless to quell 
The silent current from within, 

The outward torrent's swell; 
While all the good 1 would impart 

The feelings I would share. 



54 



BRONTk. 



Are driven backward to my heart 
And tui'ned to wormwood there; — 

If clouds must ever keep from sight 
The glories of the sun, 

And I must suffer winter's blight 



Ere summer is begun ; — 
If life must be so full of care, 

Then call vcn: soon to Thee! 
Or give ine strength enough to bear 

My load of misery. 



Charlotte Bronte. 



LIFE WILL BE GONE ERE I 
HAVE LIVED. 

Life will be gone ere I have lived; 

Where now is life's first prime ? 
I've worked and studied, longed and 
grieved 

Through all that busy time. 



To toil, to think, to long, to grieve — 

Is such my futui'e fate ? 
The morn was dreary, must the eve 

Be also desolate ? 
Well, such a life at least makes Death 

A welcome, wished-for friend; 
Then aid me, Keason, Patience, Faith, 

To suffer to the end. 



Emily Bront^. 



LAUT LINES. 

No coward soul is mine. 
No trembler in the world's storm- 
troubled sphere: 
I see heaven's glories shine. 
And Faith shines equal, arming me 
from fear. 

O God within my breast. 
Almighty, ever present Deity I 

Life — that in me has rest, 
As 1 — undying Life — have power 
in thee I 

Vain are the thousand creeds 

That move men's hearts; unutterably 

vain 

Worthless as withered weeds. 

Or idlest froth amid the boundless 

main. 

To waken doubt in one 
Holding so fast by thine infinity; 

So surely anchored on 
The steadfast rock of immortality. 

With wide-embracing love 
Thy spirit animates eternal years, 



Pervades and broods above. 
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, 
and rears. 

Though earth and man were 
gone. 
And suns and universes ceased to be. 

And Thou wert left alone. 
Every existence would exist in Thee. 

There is not room for Death, 
Nor atom that his might could ren- 
der void : 
Thou — Thou art Being and 
Breath, 
Aud what Thou art may never be 
destroyed. 



deep 



liEMEMDRANCE. 

Cold in tlie earth — and the 
snow piled above thee, 

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary 
grave! [thee. 

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love 

Severed at last by Time's all-severing 
wave ? 



BROOKS. 



55 



Now, when alone, do my thoughts 
no longer hover 

Over the mountains, on that north- 
ern shore, 

Resting their wings where heath and 
fern-leaves cover 

Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ? 

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild 

Decembers, 
From these brown hills, have melted 

into spi'ing: 
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that 

remembers [f ering ! 

After such years of change and suf- 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I 

forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me 

along; 
Other desires and other hopes beset 

me, 
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do 

thee wrong! 

No later light has lightened up my 

heaven, 
No second morn has ever shone for 

me; 



All my life's bliss from thy dear life 

was given, |thee 

All my life's bliss is in the grave with 

But, when the days of golden dreams 

had perished, 
And even Despair was powerless to 

destroy ; 
Then did I learn how existence could 

be cherished, 
Strengthened, and fed without the 

aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless 
passion — 

'^Veaned my young soul from yearn- 
ing after thine; 

Sternly denied its burning wish to 
hasten |mine. 

Down to that tomb already more than 

And, even yet, I dare not let it lan- 
guish. 

Dare not indulge in memory's raptu- 
rous pain ; 

Once drinking deep of that divinest 
anguish. 

How could 1 seek the empty world 
asiain ? 



Maria Gowen Brooks. 



[From Zophiel.] 
SOXG OF EGLA. 

Day, in melting purple dying; 
Blossoms, all around me sighing; 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying; 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; 

Ye but waken my distress; 

I am sick of loneliness! 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me. 
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent. 
Let me think it innocent! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasuie; 
All I ask is friendship's pleasure; 



Let the shining ore lie darkling, — 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; 
Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
I would only look on thee! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 

Ecstasy, but in revealing; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation. 

Rapture in participation; 

Yet l)ut torture, if comprest 
Jn a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me! 

Let these eyes again caress thee. 

Once in caution, I could fiy thee; 

Now, 1 nothing could deny thee. 
In a look \i death there be, 
Come, and I will gaze on thee! 



THE MARRIAGE OF DESPAIR. 

The bard has sung, God never formed 
a soul I meet 

Without its own pecuHar mate, to 
Its wandering half, when ripe to 
crown the whole 
Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, 
most complete! 
But thousand evil things there are 
that hate | impede, 

To look on happiness: these hurt, 
And, leagued with time, space, cir- 
cumstance, and fate. 
Keep kindred heart from heart, to 
pine and pant and bleed. 



And as the dove to far Palmyra 

flying, 
From where her native founts of 

Antioch beam. 
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, 

sighing. 
Lights sadly at the desert's bitter 

stream, — 
So many a soul, o'er life's drear des- 
ert faring, 
Love's pure, congenial spring un- 

found, unquaffed, 
Suffers, recoils, — then, thirsty and 

despairing 
Of what it would, descends and sips 

the nearest drauglit. 



Frances Brown. 



LOSSES. 

Upon the white sea sand 
There sat a pilgrim band. 
Telling the losses that their lives had 
known ; 
While evening waned away 
From breezy cliff and bay, 
And the strong tide went out with 
weary moan. 

One spake, with quivering lip. 
Of a fair freighted ship, 

With all his household to the deep 
gone down ; 
But one had wilder woe — 
For a fair face, long ago |town. 

Lost in the darker depths of a great 

There were who mourned their 

youth 
Witli a most loving ruth. 
For its brave hopes and memories 

ever green ; 
And one upon the west 
Turned an eye that would not 

rest. 
For far-off liills whereon its joy had 

been. 



Some talked of vanished gold, 
Some of proud honors told, 
Some spake of friends that were 
tlieir trust no more; 
And one of a green grave 
Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the 
shore. 

But when their tales were done, 
Theie spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sori'ow 
free : 
" Sad losses have ye met, 
But mine is heavier yet ; 
For a believing heart hath gone 
fi'om me." 



"Alas!" these pilgrims said, 
" For the living and the dead — 
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure 
cross, 
For the wrecks of land and 

sea! 
But, howe'er it came to thee, 
Thine, stranger, is life's last and 
heaviest loss." 



BROWN ELL. 



57 



Henry Howard Brownell. 



THE RETURX OF A AXE. 

Tom., tower and minster, toll 
O'er the city's ebb and Howl 

Roll, nniffled drum, still roll 
AVith solemn beat and slow I — 

A brave and a splendid soul 
Hath gone — where all shall go. 

Dimmei', in gloom and dark, 
Waned the taper, day by day, 

And a nation watched the spark, 
Till its fluttering died away. 

Was its flame so strong and cahn 
Through the dismal years of ice 

To die 'mid the orange and the palm 
And the airs of Paradise ? 

Over that simple bier 

While the haughty Spaniard bows, 
Grief may join in the geneious tear, 

And Vengeance forget her vows. 

Ay, honor the wasted form 
That a noble spirit wore — 

Lightly it presses on the warm 
Spring sod of its parent shore; 

Hunger and darkness, cold and storm 
Never shall harm it moie. 

No more of travel and toil. 

Of tropic or arctic wild: 
Gently, O Mother Soil, 

Take thy worn and wearied child. 

Lay him — the tender and true — 
To rest with such who aie gone, 

Each chief of the valiant crew 

That died as oui- own hath done — 

Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh, 
Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John. 

And let grief be far remote. 

As we march from the place of 
death. 
To the blithest note of the fife's clear 
throat. 
And the bugle's cheeriest breath. 



Roll, stirring drum, still roll! 

Not a sigh — not a sound of woe. 
That a grand and glorious soul 

Hath gone where the brave must 
go. 



ALL TOO ETHER. 

Old friends and dear! it were ungen- 
tle rhyme. 
If I should question of your true 
hearts, whether [time. 

Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant 
The good old time when Ave were 
all together. 

Our limbs were lusty and our souls 

sublime ; 

We never heeded cold and winter 

weather, |time. 

Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery 

The brave old time when we were 

all together. 

Pleasant it was to tread the mountain 
thyme. 
Sweet was the pure anil piny moim- 
tain ether. 
And pleasant all; but this was in the 
time. 
The good old time when Me were 
all together. 

Since then Pve strayed through many 

a fitful clime, 
■ (Tossed on the wind of fortune 

like a feather,) 
And chanced with rare good fellows 

in my time — 
But ne'er the time that we have 

known together. 

But none like those l)rave hearts (for 
now 1 climj) 
Gray hills alone, or thread the 
lonely heather,) 
That walked beside me in the ancient 
twne. 
The good old time when we were 
all together. 



58 



BROWNE LL. 



Long since, we parted in our careless 
prime, 
Like summer birds no June shall 
hasten hither; 
No more to meet as in that merry 
lime, 
The sweet spring-time that shone 
on all together. 

fSome, to the fevered city's toil and 
grime. 
And some o'er distant seas, and 
some — ah ! whither ? 
Nay, we shall never meet as in the 
time. 
The dear old time when we were 
all together. 

And some — above their heads, in 
wind and rime. 
Year after year, the grasses wave 
and wither ; 
Aye, we shall meet ! — 'tis but a little 
time. 
And all shall lie with folded hands 
together. 

And if, beyond the sphere of doubt 
and crime. 
Lie purer lands — ah ! let our steps 
be thither; 
That, done with earthly change and 
earthly time, 
In God's good time we may be all 
together. 



MIDNIGHT— A LAMENT. 

Do the dead carry their cares 
Like us, to the place of rest ? 

The long, long night — is it theirs, 
Weary to brain and breast ? 

Ah, that I knew how it fares 
With One that I loved the best. 

I lie alone in the house. 
How the wretched North-wind 
raves ! 
I listen, and think of those 
O'er whose heads the wet grass 
waves — 
Do they hear the wind that blows, 
And the rain on their lonely graves ? 



Heads that I helped to lay 

On the pillow that lasts for aye. 

It is but a little way 
To the dreary hill where they lie- 

No bed but the cold, cold clay — 
No roof but the stormy sky. 

Cruel the thought and vain I 

They've now nothing more to bear- 
Done with sickness and pain, 

Done with trouble and care — 
But I hear the wind and the rain. 
And still 1 think of them there. 

Ah, couldst thou come to me. 

Bird that I loved the best 1 
That I knew it was well with thee- 

Wikl and weary North-WestI 
Wail in chinniey and tree — 

Leave the dead to their rest. 



THE ADIEU. 

Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well I 
That may not longer dwell 
In this fond iieart, dear paramours of 
Youth! 
A cold, unloving bride 
Is ever at my side — 
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as 
Truth ? 

Long hath she sought my side. 
And would not be denie(l. 
Till, all perforce, she won my spirit 
o'er — 
And though her glances be 
But hard and stern to me, 
At every step 1 love her more and 
more. 



ALONE. 

A SAD old house by the sea. 

Were we happy. I and thou. 
In the days that used to be ? 

There is nothing left me now 

But to lie, and think of thee 
With folded hands on my breast, 

And lisl to the weary sea 
.Sobbing itself to rest. 



BROWNE LL. 



59 



LOXG AGO. 

When at eve I sit alone. 
Thinking on the Past and Gone — 
Wliiie the clock, with drowsy finger, 
Marks how long the minutes lin- 
ger, — 
And the embers, dimly burning. 
Tell of Life to Uust returning — 
Then my lonely chair around, 
AVith a (juiet. mournful sound, 
With a murmur soft and low, 
Come the ghosts of Long Ago. 

One by one, I count them o'er. 
Voices, that are heard no more, 
Tears, that loving cheeks have wet, 
Words, whose music lingers yet, — 
Holy faces, pale and fair. 
.Shadowy locks of waving hair — 
Happy sighs and whispers dear, 
Songs forgotten many a year, — 
Lips of dewy fragrance — eyes 
Brighter, bluer than the skies — 
Odors breathed from Paradise. 

And the gentle sliadows glide 
Softly murmuring at my side. 
Till the long unfriendly day. 
All forgotten, fades away. 

Thus, when I am all alone. 
Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone, 
All around me, 'sad and slow. 
Come the ghosts of Long Ago. 



Midnight in drear New England, 
'Tis a driving storm of snow — 

How the casement clicks and rattles. 
And the wind keeps on to blow ! 

For a thousand leagues of coast-line. 
In fitful flurries and starts. 

The wild North-Easter is knocking 
At lonely windows and hearts. 

Of a night like this, how many 
Must sit by the hearth, like me. 

Hearing the stormy weather. 
And thinkins: of those at sea! 



Of the hearts chilled through with 
watching, 
The eyes that wearily blink. 
Through the blinding gale and snow- 
drift, 
For the Lights of NavesinkI 

How fares it, my friend, with you '? — 
If I've kept your reckoning aright, 

The brave old ship must be due 
On our dreary coast, to-night. 

The fireside fades before me. 
The chamber quiet and warm — 

And I see the gleam of her lanterns 
In the wild Atlantic storm. 

Like a dream, 'tis all around me — 
The gale, with its steady boom, 

And the crest of every roller 
Torn into mist and spume — 

The sights and the sounds of Ocean 
On a night of peril and gloom. 

The shroud of snow and of spoon- 
drift 

Driving like mad a-lee — 
And the iiuge black hulk that wallows 

Deep in the trough of the sea. 

The creak of cabin and bulkhead. 
The wail of rigging and mast — 

The roar of the shrouds as she rises 
From a deep lee-roll to the blast. 

The sullen throb of the engine. 
Whose iron heart never tires — 

The swarthy faces that I'edden 
By the glare of his caverned fires. 

The binnacle slowly swaying. 
And nursing the faithful steel — 

And the grizzled old quarter-master, 
His horny hands on the wheel. 

I can see it — the little cabin — 
Plainly as if 1 were there — 

The chart on the old green table. 
The book and the empty chair. 

On the deck we have trod together, 
A patient and manly form. 

To and fro, by the foremast. 
Is pacing in sleet and storm. 



60 



BROWN INC. 



Since her keel first struck cold water, 
By the Stormy Cape's clear Light, 

'Tis little of sleep or slumber. 
Hath closed o'er that watchful sight, 

And a hundred lives are hanging 
On eye and on heart to-night. 

Would that to-night, beside him, 
I walked the watch on her deck, 

Recalling the Legends of Ocean, 
Of ancient battle and wreck. 

But the stout old craft is rolling 
A hundred leagues a-lee — 



Fifty of snow-wreathed hill-side, 
And fifty of foaming sea. 

I cannot hail him, nor press him 
By the hearty and true i-ight 
hand — 
1 can but miumur, — God bless 
him ! . 
And bring him safe to the land. 

And send him the best of weather. 
That ere many sims shall shine, 

We may sit by the hearth together. 
And talk about Auld Lang Syne. 



WA/TfXG FOR THE SIIW. 
[Bv C. D'AV. B.] 



We are ever waiting, waiting, 
Waiting for the tide to turn — 
" For the train at Coventry," 
For the sluggish fire to burn — 
For a far-off friend's return. 

We are ever hoping, hoping. 
Hoping that the wind will shift — 
That success may crown our venture- 
That the morning fog may lift — 
That the dying may have shrift. 

We are ever fearing, fearing. 
Fearing lest the ship have sailed — 
That the sick may ne'er recover — 



That the letter was not mailed — 
That the tiusted firm has failed. 

We are ever wishing, wishing. 
Wishing we were far at sea — 
That the winter were l)ut over — 
That we could but find the key — 
That the prisoner were free. 

Wishing, fearing, hoping,, waiting. 
Through life's voyage — moored at 

last, 
Tedious doubts shall merge forever 
(Be their sources strait or vast,) 
In the inevitable Past. 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE SLEEP. 

He givetb His beloved sleep. 

Pnalm cxxvii. 2. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar. 
Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
Now tell me if that any is. 
For gift or grace, siu-passing this — 
" He givetliHis beloved sleep? " 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 



The poet's star-tuned liarp, to sweep. 
The patriot's voice, to teach and 

rouse, 
The monarch's crown, to light the 

bi'ows ? — 
" He givetb i7/.s- beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep 

And bitter memories to make 

The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

" He givetb Ilia beloved sleep." 



BROWNING. 



61 



"Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes 

say 
But have no tune to charm away 
Sad dreams that through the eyelids 

creep : 
But never doleful dreams again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
"He givetli IIl» beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
O men, with wailing in your voices! 
O delved gold, the wallers heap! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 
And "giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop nuitely on the hill. 
His cloud above it saileth still, 
Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 
" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep; 
But angels say, and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard — 
" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 
That sees through tears the mummers 

leap. 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love repose, 
Who "giveth His beloved sleep." 

And friends, dear friends — when it 

shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 
And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall — 
' He giveth His beloved sleep.' " 



LITTLE MATTIE. 

Dead ? Thirteen a month ago ! 

Short and narrow her life's walk. 
Lover's love she could not know 

Even by a dream or talk: 



Too young to be glad of youth ; 

Missing honor, labor, rest, 
And the warmth of a babe's mouth 

At the blossom of her breast. 
Must you pity her for this. 
And for all the loss it is — 
You, her mother, with wet face, 
Having had all in your case ? 

Just so young but yesternight, 

Now she is as old as death. 
Meek, obedient in your sight, 

Gentle to a beck or breath 
Only on last Monday ! yours. 

Answering you like silver bells 
Slightly touched ! an hour matures : 

You can teach her nothing else. 
She has seen the mystery hid 
Under Egypt's pyramid: 
By those eyelids pale and close 
Now she knows what Rhamses knows. 

Cross her quiet hands, and smooth 

Down her patient locks of silk, 
Cold and passive as in truth 

You your fingers in spilt milk 
Drew along a marble floor; 

But her lips you cannot wring 
Into saying a word more, 

" Yes," or " No," or such a thing. 
Though you call, and beg, and wreak 
Half your soul out in a shriek. 
She will lie there in default 
And most innocent revolt. 

Ay, and if she spoke, may be 

She would answer like the Sox, 
" What is now 'twixt thee and me ? " 

Dreadful answer! better none. 
Yours on Monday, God's to-day! 

Yours, your child, your blood, your 
heart. 
Called ... you called her, did you 
say, 

" Little Mattie," for your part ? 
Now already it sounds strange. 
And you wonder, in this change. 
What He calls His angel-creature, 
Higher up than you can reach her. 

'Twas a green and easy world 
As she took it! room to play, 

(Though one's hair might get uncurled 
At the far end of the day. ) 



62 



BROWNING. 



What she suffered she shook off 
In the sunshine; what she sinned 

She could pray on high enough 
To keep safe above the wind. 

If reproved by God or you, 

'Twas to better her she knew; 

And if crossed, slie gatliered still. 

'Twas to cross out something ill. 

You, you had the right, you thought, 

To survey her with sweet scorn, 
Poor gay child, who had not caught 

Yet the octave-stretch forlorn 
Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, 

Now your places are changed so. 
In that same superior way 

She regards you dull and low 
As you did herself exempt 
From life's sorrows. Grand con- 
tempt 
Of the spir'its risen awhile. 
Who look back with such a smile! 

There's the sting of 't. That, I think. 

Hurts the most, a thousand-fold ! 
To feel sudden, at a wink. 

Some dear child we used to scold. 
Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease. 

Teach and txunble as our own. 
All its curls about our knees. 

Rise up suddenly full-grown. 
Who could wonder such a sight 
Made a woman mad outright ? 
Show me Michael with the sword, 
Kather than such angels. Lord ! 



TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 

Like a lady's ringlets brown, 
Flow thy silken ears adown 

Either side demurely 
Of thy silver-suited breast 
Shining out from all the rest 

Of thy body purely. 

Darkly brown thy body is. 
Till the sunshine striking this 

Alchemize its dullness: 
When the sleek curls manifold 
Flash all over into gold. 

With a burnished fulness. 



LTnderneath my stroking hand, 
Startled eyes of hazel bland 

Kindling, growing larger. 
Up thou leapest with a spring, 
Fvdl of prank and curveting. 

Leaping like a charger. 

Leap! thy broad tail waves alight; 
Leap ! thy slender feet are bright, 

Canopied in fringes. 
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine. 
Flicker strangely, fair and fine, 

Down their golden inches. 

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend, 
Little is 't to such an end 

That I praise thy rareness! 
Other dogs may be thy peers 
Haply in those drooping ears, 

And this glossy fairness. 

liut of thee it shall be said. 
This dog watched beside a bed 

Day and night unweary, — 
Watched within a curtained room, 
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom 

Round the sick and dreary. 

Iioses gathered for a vase. 
In tliat chamber died apace, 

Beam and breeze resigning — 
This dog only waited on. 
Knowing that, when light is gone 

Love remains for shining. 

father dogs in thymy dew 
Tiacked the hares and followed 
through 

Sunny moor or meadow — 
This dog only crept and crept 
Next to languid cheek that slept, 

Sharing in the shadow. 

Other dogs of loyal cheer 
Bounded at the whistle clear, 

Up the woodside hieing — 
This dog only, watched in reach, 
Of a faintly uttered speech, 

Or a louder sighing. 

And if one or two quick tears 
Dropped upon his glossy ears, 

Or a sigh came double, — 
Up he sprang in eager haste, 



Fawning, fondling, l^eathing fast, 
In a lender ti'ouble. 

Therefore to this dog will I, 
Tenderly, not scornt'idly. 

Render praise and favor : 
With my hand upon his head. 
Is my benediction said, 

Thei-efore and forever. 

And beeanse he loves me so, 
Better than his kind will do 

Often, man, or woman, 
(live I back more love again 
Than dogs often take of men, 

Leaning from my Human. 



CONSOLATION. 

All are not taken ! there are left be- 
hind 

Living Beloveds, tender looks to 
bring, 

And make the daylight still a happy 
thing. 

And tender voices to make soft the 
wind. 

But if it were not so — if 1 could find 

No love in all the world for comfort- 
ing. 

Nor any path but hollowly did ring, 

Where " dust to dust" the love from 
life disjoined — 

And if before these sepulchres im- 
nioving 

I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb 

Goes bleating up the moors in wearv 
dearth) 

Cryiiig "'Where are ye, O my loved 
and loving?" 

1 know a voice would sound, 
"Daughter. I am. 

Can I suttice for Heaven, and not 
for earth ? ' ' 



A PORTRAIT. 
'• One name is Elizabeth." — Ben Jonsox. 

I WILL paint her as I see her; 
Ten times have the lilies blown 
Since she looked upon the sun. 



And her face is lily-clear — 

Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty. 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air: 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine. 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child, — 

Though too calm, you think, and 

tender. 
For the childhood you would lend 

her. 

Yet child-simple, imdefiled, 

Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all young things — 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 

Only free from flutterings 

Of loud mirth that scorneth meas- 
ure — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure: 

Choosing pleasures (for the rest) 
Which come softly — just as .s^e. 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best. 
In a bower of gentle looks — 
Watering flowers, or reading 
books. 

And if any poet knew lier. 

He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her, 
He would paint her unaware 
With a halo round her hair. 

And a stranger, — when he sees 
her 
In the street even — smileth stilly. 
Just as you would at a lily. 



64 



BROWNING. 



And all voices that address her. 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy-scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, "God love 
her!" 
Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 



[Sonnets from the Portuguese.] 
ASSUHAXCE. 

Say over again and yet once over 

again 
That thou dost love nie. Though the 

word repeated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as 

thou dost treat it. 
Remember never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
strain, 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her 

green completed ! 
Beloved, I amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that 

doubt's pain 
Cry . . speak once more . . thou lov- 

est ! Who can fear 
Too many stars, though each in 

heaven shall roll — 
Too many flowers, though each shall 

crown the year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love 

me — toll 
The silver iterance I — only minding, 

dear. 
To love me also in silence, with thy 

soul. 



PERFECT LOVE. 

How do I love thee ? Let me count 

the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth 

and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out 

of sight 
For the ends of being and ideal grace. 



I love thee to the level of every- 
day' s 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle- 
light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for 
Right: 

I love thee purely, as they turn from 
Praise : 

I love thee with the passion put to 
use 

In my old griefs, and with my child- 
hood's faith; 

I love thee with a love I seemed to 
lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee 
with the breath. 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if 
God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 



THREE KISSES. 

First time he kissed me, he but only 

kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I 

write. 
And ever since it grew more clean 

and white, 
Slow to world-greetings . . quick with 

its "Oli; list !" 
When the angels speak. A ring of 

amethyst 
1 could not wear here plainer to my 

sight. 
Than that first kiss. The second 

passed in height 
The first, and sought the forehead, 

and half missed. 
Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond 

meed I 
That was the chrism of love, M-hich 

love's own crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did pre- 
cede. 
The third upon my lips was folded 

down 
In perfect, purple state ! since when, 

indeed, 
I have been proud and said, " My 

love, my own." 



THE CRY OF THE Hi' MAX. 

■' There is no God, ' the foolish 
saith, 
But none, '' Tliere is no sorrow; " 
And nature oft, the cry of faith, 

In bitter need will borrow: 
Eyes which the preacher could not 
school. 
By wayside graves are raised ; 
And lips say, " God be pitiful," 
That ne'er said, " God be praised." 
Be pitiful, O God! 

We sit together with the skies, 

The steadfast skies, above us : 
We look into each other's eyes, 

"And how long will youlove us?" 
The eyes grow dim with prophecy. 

The voices low and breathless — 
"Till death us part! " — O words to 
be 

Our beat for love, the deathless ! 

Be pitiful, dear God! 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed — 
Our tears drop on the lips that said 

Last night, " Be stronger hearted ! " 
O God, — to clasp those fingers close, 

And yet to feel so lonely ! — 
To see a light upon such brows, 

Which is the daylight only ! 
Be pitiful, O God! 

We sit on hills our childhood wist, 
Woods, hamlets, streams, behold- 
ing; 
The sun strikes through the farthest 
mist. 
The city's spire to golden. 
The city's golden spire it was, 
When hope and health were strong- 
est. 
But now it is the churchyard grass 
We look upon the longest. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

And soon all vision waxeth dull — 
Men whisper, " He is dying! " 

We cry no more, " Be pitiful! " — 
We have no strength for crying; 

No strength, no need! Then, soul of 
mine. 



Look up and triumph I'ather — 

Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, 

The Son abjures the Father — 

Be pitiful, O God! 



OXLY A CURL. 

Friends of faces unknown and a 
land 

Unvisited over the sea. 
Who tell me how lonely you stand. 
With a single gold curl in the hand 

Held up to be looked at by me ! 

While you ask me to ponder and say 
What a father and mother can do. 
With the bright yellow locks put 

away 
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay. 
Where the violets press nearer than 
you: — 

Shall I speak like a poet, or run 
Into weak woman's tears for re- 
lief ? 
Oh, children! I never lost one. 
But my arm's round my own little 
son. 
And Love knows the secret of 
Grief. 

And I feel what it must be and is 
When God draws a new angel so 

Through the house of a man up to 
His, 

With a miu'mur of music you miss. 
And a rapture of light you forego. 

How you think, staring on at the 
door 
Where the face of your angel 
flashed in. 
That its brightness, familiar before. 
Burns off from you ever the more 
For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 

" God lent him and takes him," you 
sigh . . . 
— Nay, there let me break with 
your pain, 
God's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which he gives, I deny 
That he can ever take back again. 



l4% 



66 



BROWNING. 



He gives what He gives. I appeal 

To all who bear babes ! In the hour 
When the veil of the body we feel 
Kent round us, while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power; 

And the babe cries, — have all of us 
known 
By apocalypse (God being there. 
Full in nature !) the child is our own — 
Life of life, love of love, moan of 
moan, 
Through all changes, all times, 
everywhere. 

He's ours and forever. Believe, 

O father ! — O mother, look back 
To the first love's assurance! To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or 
deceive 
With a cup thrtist in Benjamin's 
sack. 

He gives what He gives : be content. 

He resumes nothing given — be sure. 
God lend ? — ^here the usurers lent 
In His temple, indignant he went 

And scourged away all those im- 
pure. 

He lends not, but gives to the end, 
As He loves to the end. If it seem 

That he draws back a gift, compre- 
hend 

'Tisto add to it rather . . . amend, 
And finish it up to your dream, — 

Or keep ... as a mother may, toys 

Too costly though given by herself, 
Till the room shall be stiller from 

noise. 
And the children more fit for such 
joys, 
Kept over their heads on the shelf. 

So look up, friends ! You who indeed 
Have possessed in your house a 
sweet piece 
Of the heaven which men strive for, 

must need 
Be more earnest than others are, 
speed 
Where they loiter, persist where 
they cease. 



You know how one angel smiles there. 

Then courage! 'Tis easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and 
despair 

To the safe place above us. Adieu! 



[From Aurora Leigh.] 

KIXnXESS Fin ST K\0)VK IN A 
HOSPITAL. 

. . . . The place seemed new and 

strange as death. 
The white strait bed, with others 

strait and white. 
Like graves dug side by side, at meas- 
ured lengths, 
And quiet people walking in and out 
With wonderful low voices and soft 

steps. 
And apparitional equal care for each, 
Astonished her with order, silence, 

law: [cup, 

And when a gentle hand held out a 
She took it, as you do at sacrament. 
Half awed, half melted, — not being 

used, indeed. 
To so much love as makes the form 

of love 
And courtesy of manners. Delicate 

drinks 
And rare white bread, to whicli some 

dying eyes [God, 

Were tm-ned in observation. O my 
How sick we must be, ere we make 

men just ! 
I think it frets the saints in heaven 

to see 
How many desolate creatures on the 

earth 
Have learnt the simple dues of fellow- 
ship 
Ancl social comfort, in a hospital. 



[From Aurora Leigh.'] 

SELFISHNESS OF INTROSPEC- 
TION. 

We are wrong always, when we think 

too much 
Of what we think or are; albeit our 

thoughts 




MARIAN ERLE, 



Page 67. 






BROWNING. 



(J7 



Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, 

We are no less selfish ! If we sleep 

on rocks 
Or roses, sleeping past the hour of 

noon. 
We're lazy. 



[From Aurora Leigh.] 
A CHARACTER. 

As light November snows to empty 
nests, 

As grass to graves, as moss to mil- 
dewed stones. 

As July suns to ruins, through the 
• rents, 

As ministering spirits to mourners, 
through a loss. 

As Heaven itself to men, through 
pangs of death 

He came uncalled wherever grief had 
come. 



[From Aurora Leigh.] 
PICTURE OF MARIA^r ERLE. 

She was not w^hite nor brown 
But could look either, like a mist that 

changed 
According to being shone on more or 

less. 
The liair, too. ran its opulence of 

curls 
In doubt "twixt dark and bright, nor 

left you clear 
To name the color. Too mucli hair 

perhaps 
(I'll name a fault liere) for so small a 

liead, 
Whicli seemed to droop on that side 

and on tliis. 
As a full-blown rose, uneasy with its 

weight. 
Though not a breatli should trouble 

it. Again, 
The dimple in the cheek had better 

gone 
Witli redder, fuller roimds: and some- 

wliat large 
The mouth was^ though tlie milky 

little teeth 
Dissolved it to so infantine a smile! 



For soon it smiled at me; the eyes 

smiled too, 
But 'twas as if remembering tliey liad 

wejjt. 
And knowing they should, some day, 

Aveep again. 



[From Aurora Leigh.] 
THE OXE UNIVERSAL SYMPATHY. 

. . . . O woni.D, 

O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what 
you please. 

We play a weary game of hide and 
seek! 

We sliape a figure of our fantasy. 

Call nothing something, and run af- 
ter it 

And lose it, lose ourselves, too, in tlie 
search. 

Till clash against us, comes a some- 
body 

Who also has lost sometliing and is 
lost 



[From Aurora Leigh,] 
IN STRUGGLE. 

Alas, long suffering and most patient 
God, 

Tliou need'st be surelier God to bear 
with us 

Than even to have made us ! tliou as- 
pire, aspire 

From henceforth for me! tliou who 
hast, thyself, 

Endured tliis fleslihood, knowing 
liow, as a soaked 

And sucking vesture, it would drag 
us down 

And choke us in the melancholy 
deep. 

Sustain me, tliat, with tliee, I walk 
these waves. 

Resisting ! — breatlie me upward, thou 
for me 

Aspiring, who art tlie Way, tlie 
Truth, the Life, — 

That no truth lienceforth seem indif- 
ferent. 

No way to truth laborious, and no life, 

Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 



i 



68 



BROWNING. 



Robert Browning. 



pnospiCE. 

Fe.vk death? — to feel the fog in my 
throat, 
The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts 
denote 
1 am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of 
the storm, 
The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a 
visible form. 
Yet the strong man must go ; 
Now the journey is done and the svnn- 
mit attained. 
And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle "s to fight ere the 
guerdon be gained, 
The reward of it all. 
1 was ever a fighter, so, — one tight 
more, 
The best and the last ! 
1 would hate that Death bandaged 
my eyes, and forbore. 
And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare 
like my peers. 
The heroes of old. 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
life's arrears. 
Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best 
to the brave. 
The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend- 
voices that rave. 
Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a 
]3eace, then a joy. 
Then a light, then thy breast, 
O soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee 
again. 
And with God be the rest! 



IX A YEAH. 

Nevkr any more 

While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 



Once his love grown chill. 

Mine may strive, — 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 

Was it something said, 

Something done. 
Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun. 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

AYhen I sewed or drew, 

1 recall 
How he looked as if I sang 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word, 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprang, 

Then he heard. 

Sitting by my side, 

At my feet, 
So he breathed the air I breathed 

Satisfied ! 
I too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 

" Speak, — I love thee best ! " 

He exclaimed. 
" Let thy love my own foretell,"— 

1 confessed: 
" Cast my heart on thine 

Now unblamed. 
Since upon thy soul as well 

Hangeth mine!" 

Was it wrong to own, 

Being truth ? 
Why should all the giving prove 

His alone ? 
I had wealth and ease. 

Beauty, youth, — 
Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave these. 



That was all 1 meant, 

— To be just, 

And the passion 1 had raised 

To content. 
Since he chose to change 

Gold for dust, 
If I gave him what he praised, 

AVas it strange '? 

Would he love me yet, 

On and on, 
While 1 found some way imdreamed, 

— Paid my debt ! 
Give more life and more, 

Till, all gone, 
He should smile, *' She never seemed 
Mine before. 

" AVhat — she felt the while, 

Must I think ? 
Love's so different with us men," 

He should smile. 
" Dying for my sake — 

White and pink! 
Can't we touch those bubbles then 

But they break ? ' ' 

Dear, the pang is brief. 

Do thy part, 
Have thy pleasure. How perplext 

Grows belief! 
AVell, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart. 
Crumble it, — and what comes next ? 

Is it God ? 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 
She plucked that piece of gera- 
nium-flower. 
Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
Little has yet been changed, I 
think. 
The shutters are shut, — no light may 
pass 
Save two long rays through the 
hinge's chink. 



Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
name, — 
It was not her time to love; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough and little cares; 

And now was quiet, now astir, — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of 
her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 
And our paths in the world diverged 
so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be 
told •? 
We were fellow-mortals, — naught 
beside ? 

Xo, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make. 

And creates the love to reward the 

love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's 

sake! 

Delayed, it may be, for more lives 

yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, 

not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking 

you. 

But the time will come — at last it 
will — 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant. 
I shall say. 
In the lower earth, — in the years 
long still, — 
That body and soul so pure and 
gay'? 
Why your hair was amber I shall 
divine. 
And your mouth of your own gera- 
nium's red, — 
And what you would do with me, in 
fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's 
stead. 



BROWNING. 



1 have lived, shall I say, so much since 
then, 
Given up myself so many times, 
(iained me the gains of various 
men, 
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the 
climes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's 
full scope. 
Either I missed, or itself missed 
me, — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn 
Hope! 
What is the issue '? let us see ! 

1 loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 
My heart seemed full as it could 
hold, — 
There was space and to spare for the 
frank young smile. 
And the red young mouth, and the 
hair's young gokl. 
So, hush! I will give you this leaf to 
keep : 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold 
hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep : 
You will wake, and remember, and 
understand. 



[From In a Gondola.] 

THE TWO KISSES. 

The Moth's kiss, first! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve. 

How my face, yoiu' fio\\er, had 

pursed 
Its petals up ; so, here and there 
You brush it, till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide open burst. 

The Bee's kiss, now! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, 
A bud that dared not disallow 
The claim, so all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO .4/X. 

I SPRANG to the Stirrup, and Joris 
and he: 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal- 
loped all three ; 

"Good speed!" cried the watch as 
the gate-bolts undrew, 

" Speed!" echoed the wall to us gal- 
loping through. 

Behind shut the postern, the lights 
sank to rest. 

And into the midnight we galloped 
abreast. 

Xot a word to each other; we kept 

the great pace — 
Xeck by neck, stride by stride, never 

changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its 

girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup and set 

the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained 

slacker the bit, 
Xor galloped less steadily Roland a 

whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting; butAvhile 

we drew near 
Lokeren. the cocks crew and twilight 

dawned clear ; 
At Boom a great yellow star came 

out to see ; 
At Duffeld 'twas morning as plain as 

could be; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we 

heard the half-chime — 
So Joris broke silence with " Yet 

there is time! " 

At Aerscliot up leaped of a sudden 
the sun. 

And against him the cattle stood 
black every one, 

To stare through the mist at us gal- 
loping past; 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland 
at last. 

With resolute shoulders, each butting 
away 

The haze, as some bluff river head- 
land its spray; 




BROWNING. 



71 



And his low head and crest, just one 
sharp ear bent back 

For my voice, and the other x^ricked 
out on his track ; 

And one eye's black intelligence, — 
ever that glance 

O'er its white edge at me, his own 
master, askance; 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes, 
which aye and anon 

His fierce lips shook upward in gal- 
loping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried 
Joris, "Stay spur! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the 
fault's not in her; 

We'll remember at Aix" — for one 
heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, 
and staggering knees. 

And sunk tail, "and horl-ible heave of 
the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shud- 
dered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I. 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud 
in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a piti- 
less laugh ; 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, 
bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Delhem a dome-spire 
sprang white. 

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for 
Aix is in sight! " 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in 
a moment his roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead 
as a stone ; 

And there was my Roland to bear 
the whole weight 

Of the news which alone could save 
Aix from her fate. 

With his nostrils like pits full of 
blood to the brim. 

And with circles of red for his eye- 
sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each 

holster let fall. 
Shook oft' both my jack-boots, let go 

belt and all. 



Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, pat- 
ted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my 
horse without peer — 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, 
any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix, Roland gal- 
loped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flock- 
ing round. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my 
knees on the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this 
Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last 
measure of wine. 

Which (the burgesses voted by com- 
mon consent) 

Was no more than his due who 
brought good news from Ghent. 



IFrom The Ring and The Book:] 
DREAMS. 

It is the good of dreams — so soon 

they go ! 
Wake in a horror of heart-beats you 

may — 
Ciy, " The dead thing will never 

from my thoughts!" 
Still, a few daylight doses of plain 

life. 
Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or 

bleat and bell 
Of goats that trot by, tinkling to be 

milked; 
And when you rub your eyes awake 

and wide. 
Where is the harm o' the horror? 

Gone ! 



[From The Riii;/ and The Rook.] 
THE LACK OF CHILDREX. 

What could they be but happy? — 

balanced so, 
Xor low i' the social scale nor yet too 

high. 
Xor poor nor richer than comports 

with ease. 



BRYANT. 



Nor bright and envied, nor obscure 
and scorned, 

Nor so young that their pleasures fell 
too thick. 

Nor old past catching pleasiu'e Mheii 
it fell, 

Nothing above, below the just degree, 

All at the mean where joy's compo- 
nents mix. 

So again, in the couple's very souls 

You saw the adequate half with half 
to match, 

Each having and each lacking some- 
what, both 

Making a whole that had all and 
lacked naught; 

The round and sound, in whose com- 
posure just 

The acquiescent and recipient side 

"Was Pietro's, and the stirring striv- 
ing one 

Yiolante's: both in union gave the 
due 

Quietude, enterprise, craving and 
content. 

Which go to bodily health and peace 
of mind. 

But, as 'tis said a body, rightly 
mixed. 

Each element in equipoise, would 
last 



Too long and live forever, — accord- 
ingly 
Holds a germ — sand-grain weight too 

much i' the scale — 
Ordained to get predominance one 

ilay 
And so bring all to ruin and release, — 
Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked 

here: 
"With mortals much must go, but 

something stays; 
Nothing will stay of our so happy 

selves." 
Out of the very ripeness of life's 

core 
A worm was bred — "Our life shall 

leave no fruit." 
Enough of l)liss, they thought, could 

bliss bear seed, 
yield its like, propagate a bliss in 

turn 
And keep the kind up; not supplant 

themselves 
But put in evidence, record they 

were, 
Show them, when done with, i' the 

shape of a child. 
" 'Tis in a child, man and wife grow 

complete. 
One flesh: God says so: let him do 

his work! " 



William Cullen Bryant. 



''BLESSED ARE THEY 
MOUHN. " 



THA T 



Oil, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 

The Power who pitii's man has 
shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of simny rest 
For every dark and troubled night; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
r>ut joy shall come with early light. 



And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low 
bier, 

Sheddest the bitter drops of rain, 
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 

Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, 

Though" with a pierced and bleeding 
heart. 
And spurned of men. he goes to die. 

For Ciod hath marked each sorrowiaig 
day 
And numbered every secret tear, 
And heaven's long age of bliss shall 
pay 
Foi' all his children suffer here. 






BRYANT. 



io 



JUNE. 

I GAZED upon the glorious sky 

And the green mountains round ; 
And thought" that when I came to 
He 
At rest within the ground, 
'Twere pleasant, that in tlowery 

June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful 
tune, 
And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to 

make, 
The rich, green mountain turf should 
break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 
A coffin borne through sleet, 

And icy clods above it i-olled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away! — I will not think of these — 

Bluebe the sky and soft the breeze. 
Earth green beneath the feet, 

And be the damp mould gently 
pressed 

Into my narrow place of I'est. 

There through the long, long sum- 
mer hours 
The golden light should lie. 
And thick young herbs and gi-oups of 
flowers 
Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be 

heard 
The housewife bee and humming- 
bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

Come, from the village sent. 
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 

With fairy laughter blent ? 
And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument '.* 
1 would tiie lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight or sound. 

1 know. I know I should not see 
The season's glorious show, 



\or would its brightness shine for 

me, 
Nor its wild music flow; 
But if, around my place of sleep. 
The friends 1 love should come to 

weep, 
They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and 

bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my 

tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should 
bear 

The thought of what has been. 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene ; 
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the sununer hills, 

Is — that his grave is green; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 



THE PAST. 

Thou unrelenting Past! 
Strong are the barriers round thy 
dark domain. 
And fetters, sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing 
reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and 
gloom. 
And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy 
womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth. 
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws 
us to the ground. 
And last. Mean's Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are 
bound. 

Thou hast my better years. 
Thou hast my earlier friends — the 
good — the kind. 
Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form — the exalted 
mind. 



74 



BRYANT. 



My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with de- 
sire intense, 
And strnggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy cap- 
tives thence. 

In vain — thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence 
depart; 
Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the 
broken heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown — 
to thee 
Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the 
sea; 

Labors of good to man. 
Unpublished charity, unbroken 
faith.— 
Love that midst grief began. 
And grew with years, and "faltered 
not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, un- 
revered ; 
With thee are silent fame, 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disax> 
peared. 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up 
at last; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest 
time, 
Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its 
prime. 

They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once 
so sweet. 
Smiles, radiant long ago. 
And featiu'es, the great soul's appar- 
ent seat. 



All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again; 

Alone shall evil die. 
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy 
reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I 
sprung. 
And her, who, still and cold. 
Fills the next grave — the beautiful 
and young. 



THAXATOrSIS. 

To him who in the love of Natiu'e 

holds 
Communion with her visible forms, 

she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer 

hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a 

smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she 

glides 
Into his daiker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals 

away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. 

When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a 

blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and 

pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the 

narrow house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick 

at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and 

list 
To Nature's teachings, while from 

all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths 

of air — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days 

and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no 

more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold 

ground. 
Where" thy pale form was laid, with 

many tears, 



Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall 
exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished 
thee, shall claim 

Thy growtli, to be resolved to earth 
again. 

And, lost each human trace, surren- 
dering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements. 

To be a brother to the insensible 
rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the 
rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads up- 
on. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and 
pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting- 
place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst 

thou \\ish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou 

shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world 

— with kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the 

wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of agas 

past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The 

hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; 

the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
tween ; 
The venerable woods; rivers that 

move 
In majesty, and the complaining 

brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, 

poured round all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy 

waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The 

golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of 

heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of 

death, 
Through the still. lapse of ages. All 

that tread 



The globe are but a handful to the 

tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take 

the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert 

sands. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous 

woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears 

no sound. 
Save his own dashings — yet the 

dead are there : 
And millions in those solittides, since 

first 
The flight of years began, have laid 

them down 
In their last sleep; the dead reign 

there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou 

withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no 

friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All 

that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay 

will laugh 
When thou art gone; the solemn 

brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will 

chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these 

shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, 

and shall come. 
And make their bed with thee. As 

the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men. 
The "youth in life's green spring, and 

he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, 

and maid. 
And the sweet babe, and the gray- 
headed man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy 

side, 
By those who in their turn shall fol- 
low them. 

So live, that when thy sunnnons 

comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which 

moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each 

shall take 



His chamber in tlie silent halls of 
death. 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave 
at niglit, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sus- 
tained and sootlied 

By an unfaltering trust, approach 
thy grave 

Like one v/ho wraps the drapery of 
his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleas- 
ant dreams. 



THE EVENING WIND. 

Spirit that breathest through my 

lattice, thou 
That coolest the twilight of the 

sultry day, 
Gratefully flows thy freshness I'ound 

my brow : 
Thou liast been out upon the 

deep at play, 
Riding all (lay the wild blue waves 

till now, 
lioughening their crests, and 

scattering high their spray 
And swelling the white sail. I wel- 
come thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer 

of the sea ! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms 
round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of de- 
light; 

And languid forms rise uj), and 
pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind 
of night; 

And, languishing to hear thy grate- 
ful sound, 
Lies the vast inland stretched 
beyond the sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade; 
go forth, 

God's blessing breathed upon the 
fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his 
nest. 
Curl the still waters, bright with 
stars, and rouse 



The wide old wood from his majes- 
tic rest, 
Summoning, from the innumer- 
able boughs. 

The strange, deep harmonies that 
haunt his breast: 
Pleasant shall be thy way where 
meekly bows 

The shutting flower, and darkling 
waters pass, 

And where the o'ershadowing branch- 
es sweep the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver 

head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the 

child asleep, 
And diy the moistened curls that 

overspread 
His temples, while his breathing 

grows more deep: 
And they who stand about the sick 

man's bed, 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant 

sweep, 
And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning 

bi'ow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
Which is the life of nature, shall 

restore, 
\yith sounds and scents from all thy 

mighty I'ange, 
Thee to tliy birthplace of the deep 

once more; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and 

strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner 

of the shore ; 
And, listening to thy murnuu', he 

shall deem 
He hears the rustling loaf and run- 
ning stream. 



LIFE. 

On, Life, I breathe thee in the breeze, 
I feel thee bounding in my veins, 

I see thee in these stretching trees. 
These flowers, this still rock's 
mossy stains. 



^ 



BRYANT. 



This stream of odor flowing by, 
From clover field and clumps of 
pine, 
This music, thrilling all the sky, 
From all the morning birds, are 
thine. 

Thou fill'st with joy this little 
one, 
That leaps and shouts beside me 
here, 
Wliere Isar's clay white rivulets run 
Through the dark woods like 
frighted deer. 

Ah! must thy mighty breath, that 
wakes 
Insect and bird, and flower and 
tree, 
From the low-trodden dust, and makes 
Their daily gladness, pass from 
me — 

Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the 
ground 
These limbs, now strong, shall creep 
with pain. 
And this fair world of sight and 
sound 
Seem fading into night again ? 

The things, oh. Life! thou quickenest, 
all 
Strive upward towards the broad 
bright sky. 
Upward and outward, and they fall 
Back to earth's bosom when they 
die. 

All that have borne the touch of 
death, 
All that shall live, lie mingled 
there. 
Beneath that veil of bloom and 
breath, 
That living zone 'twixt earth and 
air. 

There lies my chamber dark and 
still. 
The atoms trampled by my feet. 
There wait, to take the place I fill 
In the sweet air and sunshine 
sweet. 



Well, I have had my turn, have 
been 
Raised from the darkness of the 
clod. 
And for a glorious moment seen 
The brightness of the skirts of 
Goil ; 

And knew the light \\ithin my 
breast. 
Though wavering oftentimes and 
dim. 
The power, the will, that never 
rest. 
And cannot die, were all from Ilim. 

Dear child! I know that thou wilt 
grieve 
To see me taken from thy love. 
Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve. 
And weep, and scatter flowers 
above. 

Thy little heart will soon be healed, 
And being shall be bliss, till thou 

To younger forms of life must yield 
The ptace thou fill'st with beauty 
now. 

When we descend to dust again. 

Where will the final dwelling be 
Of Thought and all its memories 
then. 
My love for thee, and thine for 
me ? 




THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Tiiou blossom bright with autumn 

dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own 

blue. 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs 

unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed. 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden 

nest, 



Thou waitest late and coin'st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are 
flown, 

And frosts and shortening days por- 
tend 

Tlie aged year is near liis end. 

Then doth tliy sweet and quiet eye 
Look tlu'ougli its fringes to the sliy, 
Blue — blue — as if that sliy let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draAV near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as 1 depart. 



THE CROWDED STREET. 

Let me move slowly through tlie 
street. 
Filled with an ever-shifting train, 
Amid the sound of steps that beat 
The murmuring walks like autumn 
rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face; 
Some bright Avitli tliouglitless smiles, 
and some 
Where secret tears have left their 
trace. 

They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest; 

To halls in whicli the feast is 
spread ; 
To chambers where the funeral guest 

In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 
Wliere children, pressing cheek to 
cheek. 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness liere, 
Shall shudder as they reacli the 
door 
Where one who made tlieir dwelling 
dear. 
Its flower, its light, is seen no 
more. 



Youth, with pale cheek and slender 
frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine 
eye! 
(ioest thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade, with eager l)row ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now. 

Or melt the glittering spires in air? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall 
tread 
The dance till daylight gleam 
again '? 
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal 
pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think 
how long 
The cold dark hours, how slow the 
light! 
And some who flaunt amid the 
throng. 
Shall hide in dens of shame to- 
night. 

Each, where his tasks or pleasures 
call. 
They pass and heed each other not. 
There is who heeds, who holds them 
all. 
In His large love and boundless 
thought. 

These struggling tides of life that 
seem 
In wayward, aimless course to 
tend. 
Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere 
which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
^\^len all of thee that time could 
wither, sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we 
tread ? 



BRYANT. 



79 



For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless 
pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence 
not; 
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read 
again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender 
thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand 
me there ? 
That heart whose fondest throbs 
to me were given '? 
My name on earth was ever in thy 
prayer, 
And must thou never utter it in 
heaven '? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life- 
breathing wind, 
In the resplendence of that glo- 
rious sphere. 
And larger movements of the unfet- 
tered mind, 
Wilt thou forget the love that 
joined us here ? 

The love that lived through all the 
stormy past, 
And meekly with my harsher na- 
ture bore, 
And deeper grew, and tenderer to 
the last. 
Shall it expire with life, and be no 
more ? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger 
light, 
Await thee there; for thou hast 
bowed thy will 
In cheerfid homage to the rule of 
right, 
And lovest all, and renderest good 
for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I 
dwell, 
Shrink and consume my heart, as 
heat the scroll ; 
And wrath has left its scar — that 
fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my 
soul. 



Yet though thou wearest the glory of 
the sky. 
Wilt thou not keep the same be- 
loved name. 
The same fair thoughtful brow, and 
gentle eye. 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, 
yet the same ? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that 
calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in 
this — 
The wisdom which is love — till I 
become 
Thy fit companion in that laud of 
bliss ? 



THE COXQUEROR'S GRAVE. 

AViTHiN this lowly grave a Conqueror 
lies, 
And yet the monument proclaims 
it not, 
Nor round the sleeper's name hath 
chisel wrought 
The emblems of a fame that never 
dies. 
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf. 
Twined with the laurel's fair, impe- 
rial leaf. 
A simple name alone, 
To the great world unknown. 
Is gravenliere, and wild flowers, ris- 
ing round, 
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of 
the ground, 
Lean lovingly against the humble 
stone. 

Here in the quiet earth, they laid 
apart 
No man of iron mould and bloody 
hands. 
Who sought to wreck upon the cow- 
ering lands 
The passions that consumed his 
restless heart; 
But one of tender spirit and delicate 
frame, 
Gentlest in mien and mind. 
Of gentle womankind, 



80 



BRYANT. 



Timidly shrinking from the breath 
of blame ; 

One in whose eyes the smile of kind- 
ness made 
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny 
brooks in May, 

Yet, at the thought of others' pain, 
a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the 
smile away. 

Nor deem that when the hand that 

moidders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were 

chilled with fear. 
And armies mustered at the sign, 

as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy 

East, — 
Gray captains leading bands of 

veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture's 

feast. 
Not thus were waged the mighty wars 

that gave 
The victory to her who fills this 

grave; 
Alone her task was wrought, 
Alone the battle fought; 
Through that long strife her constant 

hope was staid 
On C4od alone, nor looked for other 

aid. 

She met the hosts of sorrow with a 
look 
That altered not beneath the fiown 
they wore. 
And soon the lowering brood were 
tamed, and took, 
Meekly, her gentle rule, and 
frowned no more. 
Her soft hand put aside the assaults 
of wrath, 
And calndy broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain. 
And rent the nets of passion from 
her path. 
By that victorious hand despair 
was slain. 
With love she vanquished hate and 

overcame 
Evil with good, in her great Master's 
name. 



Her glory is not of this shatlowy 

state 
Glory that with the fleeting season 

dies; 
But when she entered at the sapphire 

gate 
What joy was radiant in celestial 

eyes! 
How heaven's bright depths with 

sounding welcomes rung, 
And flowers of heaven by shining 

hands were flung; 
And He who, long before. 
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect 

sweet. 
Smiled on the timid stranger from 

his seat; 
He who returning, glorious, from the 

grave. 
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, 

a crouching slave. 

See, as I linger here, the sun grows 
low; 
Cool airs are nuu'muring that the 
night is near. 
Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I 
go 
Consoled though sad, in hope and 

yet in fear. 
Brief is the time, I know, 
The warfare scarce begun ; 
Yet all may win the triumphs thou 

hast won. 
Still flows the fount whose waters 
sti'engthened thee ; 
The victors' names are yet too few 
to fill 
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious 
armory, 
That ministered to thee is open 
still. 



[Frovi an unfinished poem.] 
AN EVENING HE VERY. 

The summer day is closed — the 
sim is set; 
Well they have done their office, 
those bright hours. 



The latest of whose train goes softly 

out 
In the reil West. The green blade 

of the ground 
Has risen, and herds have cropped 

it ; the young twig 
Has spread its plaited tissues to the 

sun ; 
Flowers of the garden and the waste 

have blown 
And witliei'ed ; seeds have fallen npon 

the soil, 
From bursting cells, and in their 

graves await 
Their resurrection. Insects from 

the pools 
Have filled the air awhile with hum- 
ming wings. 
That now are still forever; painted 

moths 
Have wandered the blue sky, and 

died again ; 
The mother-bird hath broken for 

her brooil 
Their prison shell, or shoved them 

from the nest, 
Plumed for their earliest flight. In 

bright alcoves. 
In woodland cottages with barky 

walls, [town. 

In noisome cells of the tumultuous 
Mothers have clasped with joy the 

new-born babe. 
Graves by the lonely forest, by the 

shore 
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
Of the thronged city, have been hol- 
lowed out 
And filled, and closed. This day 

hatli parted friends 
That ne'er before were parted; it 

hath knit 
New friendships; it hath seen the 

maiden pliglit 
Her faith, and trust her peace to him 

who long 
Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from 

lips M'hicli late 
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh 

word. 
That told the wedded one, her peace 

was flown. 
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! 

One glad day 



Is added now to childhood's merry 

days. 
And one calm day to those of quiet 

age. • 
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I 

lean, 
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps 

are lit. 
By those who watcli the dead, and 

those who twine 
Flowers for the bride. The mother 

from the eyes 
Of her sick infant shades the pain- 
ful light. 
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn 

breath. 

O thou great Movement of the 
Universe, 

Or change, or flight of Time — for 
ye are one ! 

That bearest, silently, this visible 
scene 

Into night's shadow and the stream- 
ing rays 

Of starlight, whither art thou bear- 
ing me ? 

I feel the mighty current sweep me 
on. 

Yet know not whither. Man fore- 
tells afar 

The courses of the stars; the very 
hour 

He knows when they shall darken or 
grow bright ; 

Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and 
of Death 

Come unforewarned. Who next, of 
those I love. 

Shall pass from life, or sadder yet, 
shall fall 

From virtue ? Strife with foes, or 
bitterer strife 

With friends, or shame and general 
scorn of men — 

Which who can bear ? — or the fierce 
rack of pain. 

Lie they within my path ? Or shall 
the years 

Push me, with soft and inoffensive 
pace, 

Into the stilly twilight of mv 
age? 

Or do the portals of another life 



82 



BURNS. 



Even now, while 1 am glorying in my 

strength, 

Impend around me? OI beyond 
that bourne, 

In the vast cycle of being which be- 
gins 

At that broad threshold, with what 
fairer forms 

.Shall the great law of change and 
progress clothe 



Its workings? Gently — so have 

good men taught — 
Gently, and without grief, the old 

shall glide 
Into the new; the eternal flow of 

things, 
Like a bright river of the fields of 

heaven. 
Shall journey onward in perpetual 

peace. 



Robert Burns. 



TO MAR y IN HE A VEN. 

Tiiou ling'ring star, with less'ning 
ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hearest thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports 
past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our 
last; 

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 
O'erhmig with wild woods, thicken- 
ing green ; 
'J'lie fragrant birch, and hawthorn 
hoar. 
Twined amorous i-ound the raptured 
scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be 
prest. 
The birds sang love on every 
spray, — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
I'roclaimed the speed of winged 
dav. 



Still o'er these scenes my memory 
wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper 
makes. 
As streams their channels deeper 
wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of 
rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
Hearest thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 



FOR A- THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
AVe dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a" that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that : 

The rank is but the guinea stamp; 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we 
dine. 
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 
A man's a inan for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that : 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae 
poor. 
Is kinsr o' men for a' that. 



1^ 



BURNS. 



83 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

\Vha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Tlio* hundreds worship at his word. 
He's but a coof for a' tliat: 
For a' that and a' that, 

His ribband, star, and a' tliat, 
Tlie man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A iirince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
(Juid faith, he raauna fa' that! 
For a' tliat, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' 
worth. 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the 
earth' 
May bear the gree, and a" that 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that; 

That man toman, the warld o'er 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



STANZAS IN PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

■\ViiY am 1 loth to leave this earthly 
scene ! 
Have I so found it full of pleasing 
charms ? 

home drops of joy with draughts of 
ill between: 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid re- 
newing stomis ; 

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark 
abode ? 

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in 
arms: 
I tremble to approach an angry 
God. 

And justly smart beneath his sin- 
avenging rod. 

Fain would 1 say, "Forgive my foul 
offence! " 
Fain promise nevei' more to disobey ; 



But, should my Author health again 
dispense, 
Again I might desert fair virtue's 
way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 
Again exalt the brute, and sink 
the man; 
Then how should 1 for heavenly mer- 
cy pray. 
Who act so counter heavenly mer- 
cy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to 
temptation ran ? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease 
to blow. 
And still the tumult of the raging 
sea; 
With that controlling pow'r assist 
ev'n me, 
Those headlong furious passions to 
confine. 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 
To rule their torrent in the allowed 
line; 
Oh, aid me with thy help, Onuiip- 
otence Divine! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

Ou turning one down with the plough, in 
April, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour: 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe, to 
greet 

The purpling east. 

Gauld blew tlie bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 



BURNS. 



Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens 

yield 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun 

shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod, or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming heatl 

In humble guise; 
Btit now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred I 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow 
hard. 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striven, 
By liinuan pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrenched of every stay but 
heaven. 

He, ruined, sink! 

Even thou who mournest the daisy's 

fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Kuin's ploughshare drives, 
elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till, crushed beneath the furrow's 
weight 

Shall be thy doom ! 



JOH^r A^TDEJiSOX, MV JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, .John, 

We've hail wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hanil in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



FARE W EEL TO NAXCY. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 

thee ! 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 

thee !" 
Who shall say that fortune grieves 

him, 
While the star of hope she leaves 

him ! 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights nie; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her, was to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
AVe had ne'er been broken hearted! 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! 
Deep in heart- wnmg tears I'll pledge 
thee, [thee. 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 



BUBNS. 



[From To the Unco Guld.] 
GOD, THE ONLY JUST JUDGE. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tlio' they may gang a kennie wrang, 

To step aside is human: 
One point nuist still be greatly dark, 

The moving 117/?/ they do it; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, [tone. 

He knows each chord — its various 

Each spring — its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took my last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green 
birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

W^i' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was f u' tender ; 
And, ijledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But oh! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early I 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 



Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling 
glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And mouldering now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Sliall live my Highland Mary. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as 1 wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayi', 
I spied a man, whose aged step 

Seemed weary, worn with care; 
His face was furrowed o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest 
thou ? 

Began the reverend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step con- 
strain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Outspreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 

A haughty lordling's pride; 
Fve seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
.Vnd every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious youthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 



i 



H6 



BUSHNELL. 



Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

■Supported is his right. 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn ; 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched 
pair! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favorites of fate. 

In Pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land 

Are wretched and forlorn. 
Tliro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Kegret, remorse, and shame! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 



And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — 

By nature's law designed, — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am 1 subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn '? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thy youthful breast: 
This partial view of humankind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

O death! the poor man's dearest 
friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh! a blest relief to those 

That wear>--laden mourn ! 



Louisa Bushnell. 



DELA y. 



Taste the sweetness of delaying, 
Till the hour shall come for saying 

That I love you with my soul ; 
Have you never thought your heart 
Finds a something in the part. 

It would miss from out the whole? 

In this rosebud you have given. 
Sleeps that perfect rose of heaven 

That in Fancy's garden blows; 
W^ake it not by touch or sound, 
Lest, perchance, 'twere lost, not 
found. 

In the opening of the rose. 



Dear to me is this reflection 
Of a fair and far perfection, 

Shining through a veil undrawn; 
Ask no question, then, of fate; 
Yet a little longer wait. 

In the beauty of the dawn. 

Through our mornings, veiled and 

tender. 
Shines a day of golden si)len(lor, 

Never yet fulfilled by day; 
Ah! if love be made complete. 
Will it, can it, be so sweet 

As this ever sweet delay? 



BUTLER. 



87 



Samuel Butler. 



Love is too great a happiness 
For wretched mortals to possess ; 
For could it hold inviolate 
Against those cruelties of fate 
Which all felicities below 
By rigid laws are subject to. 
It would become a bliss too hitrh 



For perishing mortality ; 
Translate to earth the joys above ; 
For nothing goes to Heaven but Love. 
All love at first, like generous wrne, 
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine; 
For when 'tis settled on the lee, 
And from the impurer matter free. 
Becomes the richer still, the older, 
And proves the pleasanter, the colder. 



William Allen Butler. 



WORK AND WOUSHIP. 
" Laborare est orare. " — St. Augitstixe. 

Charlemagne, the mighty mon- 
arch. 
As through Metten AYood he 
strayed, 
Fomid the holy hermit, Hutto, 
Toiling in the forest glade. 

In his hand the woodman's hatchet. 

By his side the knife and twine. 
There he cut and bound the faggots 

From the gnarled and stunted pine. 

Well the monarch knew the hermit 
For his pious Avorks and cares, 

And the wonders which had followed 
From his vigils, fasts, and prayers. 

Much he marvelled now to see him 
Toiling thus, with axe and cord ; 

And he cried in scorn, " O Father, 
Is it thus you serve the Lord ? " 

But the hermit resting neither 
Hand nor hatchet, meekly said : 

" He who does no daily labor 
May not ask for daily bread. 

" Think not that my graces shunber 
While I toil throughout the day : 

For all honest work is worship. 
And to labor is to pray. 



"■ Think not that the heavenly bless- 
ing 

From the workman's hand removes; 
Who does best his task appointed. 

Him the Master most api) roves. "' 

While he spoke the hermit, pausing 
For a moment, raised his eyes 

Where the overhanging branches 
Swayed beneath the sunset skies. 

Through the dense and vaulted for- 
est 

Straight the level simbeam came. 
Shining like a gilded rafter. 

Poised upon a sculptured frame. 

Suddenly, with kindling features. 
While he breathes a silent prayer, 

See, the hermit throws his hatchet, 
Lightly, upward in the air. 

Bright the Mell-worn steel is gleam- 
ing, 

As it flashes through the shade, 
And descending, lo! the sunbeam 

Holds it dangling by the blade ! 

"See, my son," exclaimed the her- 
mit, — 

" See the token heaven has sent; 
Thus to humble, patient effort 

Faith's miraculous aid is lent. 



BUTLER. 



Toiling, hoping, often fainting, 

As we labor, Love Divine 
Through the shadows pours its sun- 
light, 
Crowns the work, vouchsafes the 
sign!" 

Homeward, slowly, went the mon- 
arch. 

Till he reached his palace hall, 
Where he strode among his warriors. 

He the bravest of them all. 

Soon the Benedictine Abbey 
Rose beside the hermit's cell ; 

He, by royal hands invested, 
Ruled, as abbot, long and well. 

Now beside the rushing Danube 
Still its ruined walls remain. 

Telling of the hermit's patience. 
And the zeal of Charlemagne. 



THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND 
SCHILLER. 

This is Goethe, with a forehead 
Like the fabled front of Jove; 

In its massive lines the tokens 
More of majesty than love. 

This is Schiller, in whose features. 
With their passionate calm regard. 

We behold the true ideal 
Of the high, heroic bard, 

Whom the inward world of feeling 
And the outward world of sense 

To the endless labor summon, 
And the endless recompense. 

These are they, sublime and silent. 
From whose living lips have rung 

Words to be remembered ever 
In the noble German tongue; 

Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling 
Into loftiest speech or song, 

Still through all the listening ages 
Pours its torrent swift and strong. 



As to-day in sculptured marble 
Side by side the poets stand. 

So tbey stood in life's great strug- 
gle? 
Side by side and hand to hand, 

In the ancient German city. 
Dowered with many a deathless 
name, 

Where they dwelt and toiled together, 
Sharing each the others fame. 

One till evening's lengthening shad- 
ows 

Gently stilled his faltering lips, 
But the other's sun at noonday 

Shrouded in a swift eclipse. 

There their names are household 
treasures. 

And the simplest child you meet 
Guides you where the house of Goethe 

Fronts upon the quiet street ; 

And, hard by, the modest mansion 
Where full many a heart has felt 

Memories uncounted clustering 
Round the words, "Here Schiller 
dwelt." 

In the churchyard Ijoth are biu'ied, 
Straight beyond the narrow gate, 

In the mausoleum sleeping. 
With Duke Charles, in sculptured 
state. 

For the monarch loved the poets. 
Called them to him from afar. 

Wooed them near his court to lin- 
ger, 
And the planets sought the star. 

He, his larger gifts of fortune 
With their larger fame to blend, 

Living counted it an honor 
That they named him as their 
friend ; 

Dreading to be all forgotten, 
Still their greatness to divide. 

Dying prayed to have his poets 
Buried one on either side. 



BUTTS — BUTTERWURTH. 



89 



Bui this suited not the gold-laceil 

Usliers of the royal tomb, 
Wliere the princely house of Weimar 

ttlmubered iu majestic gloom. 

So they ranged the coffins justly, 
Each with fitting rank and stamp, 

And with shows of court precedence 
Mocked the grave's sepulchral 
damp. 



Fitly now the clownish sexton 
Narrow courtier-rules rebukes ; 

Plrst he shows the grave of Goethe, 
bchillers then, and last — the 
Duke's. 

Vainly 'midst these truthful shadows 
Pride would flaunt her painted wing; 

Here the monarch waits in silence, 
And ihe poet is the king! 



Mary F. Butts. 



OTHEn MOTH E lis. 

Mother, in the sunset glow, 
Crooning ehild-songs sweet and low, 
Eyes soft shining, heart at rest, 
Kose-leaf cheek against thy breast. 

Thinkest thou of those who weep 
O'er their babies fast asleep 
Where the evening dews lie wet 
On their broidered coverlet, 

Whose cold cradle is the grave. 
Where wild roses nod and wave, 
Taking for their blossoms fair 
What a spirit once did wear ? 



Mother, crooning soft and low, 
Let not all thy fancies go, 
Like swift birds, to the blue skies 
Of thy darling's happy eyes. 

Count thy baby's curls for beads. 
As a sweet saint intercedes. 
But on some fair ringlet's gold 
Let a tender prayer be told, 

For the mother, all alone. 
Who for singing maketh moan, 
Who doth ever vainly seek 
Dimpled arms and velvet cheek. 



Hezekiah Butterworth. 



THE FOUKTAIX OF YOUTH. 

A di;eam of roNCE de leon. 

A STORY of Ponce de Leon, 

A voyager withered and old. 
Who came to the sunny Antilles, 

In quest of a country of gold, 
lie was wafted past islands of si^ices. 

As bright as the emerald seas. 
Where all the forests seem singing. 

So thick were the birds on the trees ; 
The sea was clear as the azure. 

And so deep and so pure was the sky 
That the jasper-walled city seemed 
shining 

Just out of tlie reach of the eye. 



By day his light canvas he shifted. 
And round strange harbors and 
bars : 
By niglit, on the full tides he drifted, 
'Neath the low-hanging lamps of 
the stars. [sunset, 

'Neath the glimmering gates of the 
In the twilight empurpled and dim. 
The sailors uplifted their voices, 

And sang to the Virgin a hymn. 
' ' Thank the Lord ! "said De Leon, the 
sailor, 
At tlie close of the rounded refrain ; 
" Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who 
blesses 
The ocean-swept banner of S^iain I 



90 



BUTTERWUMTH. 



The shadowy world is behind us, 

The shining Cipango before ; 
Each morning llie sun rises brigliter 

On ocean, and island, and shore. 
And still shall our spirits grow lighter, 

As prospects more glowing unfold; 
Then on, merry men! to Cipango, 

To the west, and the regions of 
gold!" 

There came to De Leon the sailor. 

Some Indian sages, who told 
Of a region so bright that the waters 

Were sprinkled with islands of gold. 
And they added: " The leafy Bimini, 

A fair land of grottos and bowers 
Is there; and a wonderful fountain 

Upsprings from its gardens of 
flowers. 
That fountain gives life to the dying, 

And youth to the aged restores : 
They flourish in beauty eternal, 

Who set but their fee^ on its 
shores!" 
Then answered De Leon, the sailor: 

" I am withered, and wrinkled, and 
old; 
I would rather discover that fountain 

Than a country of diamonds and 
gold." 

Away sailed De Leon, the sailor; 

Away with a wonderful glee. 
Till the birds were more rare in the 
azure. 

The dolphins more rare in the sea. 
Away from the shady Bahamas. 

Over waters no sailor had seen. 
Till again on his wandering vision. 

Rose clustering islands of green. 
Still onward he sped till the breezes 

Were laden with odors, and lo! 
A country embedded witli flowers, 

A country with rivers aglow! 
More bright than the sunny Antilles, 

More fair than the shady Azor^^.^. 
"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, 
the sailor. 

As feasted his eye on the shores, 
'■ We have come to a region, my 
brothers, 

More lovely than earth, of a truth; 
And here is the life-giving fountain, — 

Tlie l)(\'iutifu] Fountain of Youth." 



Then landed De Leon, the sailor. 

Unfurled his old banner, and sung; 
But he felt very wrinkled and with- 
ered. 
All around was so fresh and so 
young. 
The palms, ever-verdant, were bloom- 
ing, 
Their blossoms e'en margined the 
seas; 
O'er the streams of the forests bright 
flowers 
Hmig deep from the branches of 
trees. 
"Praise the Lord!"' sang De Leon, 
the sailor; 
His heart was with rapture aflame; 
And he said: "Be the name of this 
region 
By Florida given to fame. 
'Tis a fair, a delectable country. 

More lovely than earth, of a truth ; 
I soon shall ^^''^I'take of the foun- 
tain, — 
The beautiful Fomitain of Youth ! " 

But wandered De Leon, the sailor. 

In search of the fountain in vain; 
No waters were there to restore him 

To freshness and beauty again. 
And his anchor he lifted, and uuu-- 
nuu'ed. 
As the tears gathered fast in his eye, 
" I must leave this fair land of the 
flowers. 
Go back o'er the ocean, and die," 
Then back by the dreary Tortugas, 

And back by the shady Azores, 
lie was borne on the storm-smitten 
■waters 
To the calm of his own native 
shores. 
And that he grew older and older. 

His footsteps enfeebled gave proof. 
Still he thirsted in dreams for the 
fountain, 
The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 



One day the old sailor lay dying 
On tlie shores of a tropical isle. 

And his heart was enkindled with 

rapture; | smile. 

And his face lighted up with a 



BYIWK 



91 



He thought of the sunny Antilles, 

He thought of the shady Azores, 
He thought of the dreamy Bahamas, 

He thought of fair Florida's shores. 
And, when in his mind he passed over 

His wonderful travels of old. 
He thought of the heavenly country, 

Of the city of jasper and gold. 
" Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, 
the sailor, [the truth, 

" Thank the Lord for the light of 
1 now am approaching the fountain, 

The beautiful Fountain of Youth." 



The cabin was silent: at twilight 
They heard the birds singing a 
psalm. 
And the wind of the ocean low sigh- 
ing 
Through groves of the orange and 
palm. 
The sailor still lay on his pallet, 
'Neath the low-hanging vines of 
the roof; 
His soul had gone forth to dis- 
cover 
The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 



Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel). 



I'HOMETIIEUS. 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality. 

Seen in their sad reality. 
Were not as things that gods despise; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suffering, and intense; 
The rock, the vultm-e, and the 

chain. 
All that the proud can feel of pain. 
The agony they do not show 
The suffocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the 

will. 
Which torture where they cannot 

kill; 
And the inexorable heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of fate, 
The ruling principle of hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
Tlie things it may annihilate, 
Refused tliee even the boon to die; 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it 

well. 



All that the Thunderer wrung from 

thee 
AYas but the menace which flung 

back 
On him the torments of thy rack : 
The fate thou didst so well fore- 
see. 
But would not to appease him tell; 
And in thy silence was his sentence, 
And in his soul a vain repentance. 
And evil dread so ill dissembleil 
That in his hand the lightnings trem- 
bled. 

Thy godlike crime was to be kind. 
To render with thy precept less 
The sum of human wretchedness. 

And strengthen man with his own 
mind ; 

But baffled as thou wert from high, 

Still in thy patient energy. 

In the endurance, and repulse 
Of thine impenetrable spirit, 

Which earth and heaven could not 
convulse, 
A mighty lesson we inherit: 

Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To mortals of their fate and force; 

Like thee, man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure 
source ; 

And man in portions can foresee 



His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretcliedness, and liis resistance, 
And Ills sad unallied existence : 
To whicli his si^irit may opiDose 
Itself — and equal to all -woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense. 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentered recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making death a victory ! 



WHEN COLDNESS Jl'IiAPS THIS 
SUFFERING CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering 
clay, 
Ah! whither strays the immortal 
mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stray, 
But leaves its darkened dust be- 
hind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
By steps each planet's heavenly 
way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 
A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies displayed. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

80 darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth. 
Its eyes shall roll through chaos 
back; 
And where the f urtliest heaven had 
birth. 
The spirit trace its rising track, 
And where the future mars or makes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quenched or system 
breaks. 
Fixed in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
It lives all passionless and piire: 

An age shall fleet like earthly year; 
Its years as moments shall endure. 



Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts 
shall fly; 

A nameless and eternal thing. 
Forgetting what it was to die. 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS. 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 

Whose tearful beam glows tremu- 
lously far, 

That show'st the darkness thou canst 
not dispel, 

How like art thou to joy remembered 
well ! 

So gleams the past, the light of other 
days, 

Which shines, but warms not with 
its powerless rays ; 

A night-beam sorrow watches to be- 
hold. 

Distinct, but distant — clear — but 
oh, how cold! 



FARE THEE WELL. 

Fare thee well! and if for ever, 
Still for ever, fare tliee v^ell ; 

Even though unforgiving, never 
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

AVould that breast were bared before 
thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 
While that placid sleep came o'er 
thee. 
Which thou ne'er canst know 
again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced 
over. 

Every inmost thought could show! 
Then thou wouldst at last discover 

'Twas not well to siDurn it so. 

Through the world for this commend 
thee — 

Though it smile upon the blow. 
Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another's woe: 




BYRON. 



Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found, 

Than the one which once embraced 
me. 
To inflict a cureless wound '? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: 
Love may sink by slow decay, 

But by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 
Still must mine, though bleeding, 
beat ; 
And the undying thought which 
paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
When our child's first accents 
flow. 

Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is pressed, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless 
thee, 
Think of him thy love had blessed ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more mayst see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou know- 
est. 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

AVither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been*'shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could 
bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 



But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 
Torn from eveiy nearer tie, 

Seared in heart, and lone and blighted, 
More than this I scarce can die. 



SOXNET OX CHILL OX. 

Eterxal spirit of the chainless 
mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! 

thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the 
heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone 

can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are 
consigned — 
To fetters, and the damj) vault's 

dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their 
martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on 

every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 
'twas trod. 
Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement 
were a sod. 
By Bonnivard ! — May none those 

marks efface ; 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



SHE WALKS TX BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless 
grace, 



94 



BYRON. 



Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet ex- 
press, 

How pure, how clear their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that 
brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that 
glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 



INSCRIPTIOX 

ox THE MONl'MENT OF THE AUTHOR'S 
DOU BOATSWAIN. 

When some proud son of man returns 

to earth. 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by 

birth. 
The sculptor's art exalts the pomp 

of woe, 
And storied urns record avIio rests 

below ; 
AVlien all is done, upon the tomb is 

seen, 
Xot what he was, but what he should 

have been. 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest 

friend, 
Tlie first to welcome, foremost to de- 
fend. 
Whose honest heart is still his mas- 
ter's own, 
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for 

him alone, 
Unhonored falls, imnoticed all his 

worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on 

earth; 
While man, vain insect! hopes to be 

forgiven. 
And claims himself a sole exclusive 

heaven. 
O man I thou feeble tenant of an 

honi'. 



Debased by slavery, or corrupt by 

power, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee 

Avith disgust. 
Degraded mass of animated dust! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a 

cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, tliy words de- 
ceit! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
Each kindred brute might bid thee 

blush for shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple 

urn, 
Pass on — it honors none you wish 

to mourn ; 
To mark a friend's remains these 

stones arise ; 
I never knew but one — and here he 

lies. 



MAID OF ATHENS. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

£ui(7 Hoi, eras aymru).* 

By those tresses miconfined, 
Wooed by each iEgean Avind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

Sai»7 fiou, (TQj ayaTTui. 

By that lip I long to taste; 
By that zone-encircled waist; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
AVhat words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 

Tiir; /lov, od; ayairCi, 

'Sla.id of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

Soil; fioTi, (7(5f aymrw. 
* Z6e moil, sas agapo, .\fi/ life, I lore i/ou. 



BYRON. 



95 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 

Dearer and purer were, it should l)e 
thine; 

Mountains and seas divide us, hut 1 
claim 

No tears, but tenderness to answer 
mine : 

(4o where I will, to me thou art the 
same — 

A loved regret which I would not re- 
sign. 

There yet are two things in my des- 
tiny,— 

A world to roam through, and a home 
with thee. 

The first were nothing — had I still 

the last. 
It were the haven of my happiness; 
But other claims and other ties thou 

hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make 

them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, 

and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; 
IJeversed for him our grandsire'sfate 

of yore, — 
lie had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath 
been 

In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 

I have sustained my share of worldly 
shocks. 

The fault was mine; nor do I seek to 
screen, 

My errors. with defensive paradox ; 

I have been cimning in mine over- 
throw. 

The careful jiilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be 

their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since 

the day 
That gave me being, gave me that 

which marred 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked 

astray ; 



And I at times have foiuid the strug- 
gle hard. 

And thought of shaking off my bonds 
of clay : 

But now I fain would for a time sur- 
vive. 

If but to see what next can well ar- 
rive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my litth^ 

day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty 

spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which 

have rolled 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts 

away ; 
Something — I know not what — does 

still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience; — not in 

vain. 
Even for its own sake, do we pur- 
chase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 

Within me — or perhaps a cold de- 
spair. 

Brought on when ills habitually re- 
cur, — 

Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air. 

( Fur even to this may change of soul 
refer, 

•Vnd with light armor we may learn 
to bear,) 

Have taught me a strange quiet; 
which was not 

The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flow- 
ers, and brooks. 
Which do remember me of where I 

dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to 

books. 
Come as of yore upon me, and can 

melt 
My heart with recognition of their 

looks ; 
And even at moments I think I could 

see 
Some living thing to love — but none 

like thee. 



96 



BYRON. 



Here are the Alpine landscapes which 

create 
A fund for contemplation; — to ad- 
mire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date: 
But something worthier do such 

scenes inspire: 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view ^^'hich I could most 

desire, 
And. above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own 
of old. 

that thou wert but with me! — but 

I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one re- 
gret ; 
There may be others which I less 
may show; — 

1 am not of the plaintive mood, and 

yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
And the tide rising in my altered eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dear 
lake. 

By the old Hall which may be mine 
no more. 

Leman's is fair; but think not I for- 
sake 

The sweet remembrance of a dearer 
shore: 

Sad havoc Time must with my mem- 
ory make 

Ere that or tliou can fade these eyes 
before ; 

Though like all things which I have 
loved, they are 

Resigned for ever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; but I ask 
Of Nature that with which she will 

comply — 
It is but in her siunmer's sun to bask. 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a 

mask. 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was niy early friend, and now 

shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 



I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not; — for at length 

I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life 

begun 
The earliest — even the only paths 

for me. 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to 

shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me 

would have slept ; 
I had not suffered, and thou hadst 

not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do? 
Little with Love, and least of all 

with Fame; 
And yet they came unsought, and 

with me grew, 
And made me all which they can 

make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue; 
Surely I once beheld a noljler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone 

before. 

And for the future, this world's fu- 
ture may 

From me demand but little of my 
care ; 

I have outlived myself by many a day ; 

Having survived so many things that 
were ; 

My years have been no slumber, but 
the prey 

Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 

Of life which might have tilled a cen- 
tury, 

Before its fourth in time had passed 
me by. 

And for the remnant which may be 
to come 

I am content; and for the past I feel 

Not thankless. — for within the 
crowded sum 

Of struggles, happiness at times 
would steal. 

And for the present, I would not be- 
numb 

My feelings farther. Nor shall I 
conceal 






BYRON. 



97 



That with all this I still can look 

around. 
And worship Nature with a thought 

profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy 
heart 

1 know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 

We were and are — 1 am, even as 
thou art — 

Beings who ne'er each other can re- 
sign; 

It is the same, together or apart, 

From life's conmiencement to its 
slow decline 

We are entwined — let death come 
slow or fast. 

The tie which bound the first endures 
the last. 



[From The Giaour.] 
THE FIB ST DAY OF DEATH. 

He who hath bent him o'er the 

dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled. 
The first dark day of nothingness. 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty 

lingers ) . 
And marked the mild angelic air. 
The rapture of repose that's there, 
The fixed yet tender traits that 

streak 
The languor of the placid cheek. 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not 

now. 
And but for that chill changeless 

brow. 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
Yes, but for these and these alone. 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous 

hour. 
He still might doubt the tyrant's 

power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed. 
The first last look by death revealed ! 



[From The Giaour.'] 
LOVE. 



Yes, 



Love indeed is light from 
heaven ; 
A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Allah given, 
To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above. 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
To wean from self each sordid 

thought ; 
A ray of Him who formed the whole; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 



[From The Dream.] 
SLEEP. 

Our life is twofold! Sleep hath its 
own world, 

A boundary between the things mis- 
named 

Death and existence: Sleep hath its 
own world. 

And a wide realm of wild reality. 

And dreams in their development 
have breath. 

And tears, and tortures, and the 
touch of joy; 

They leave a weight upon our wak- 
ing thoughts. 

They take a weight from off our 
waking toils. 

They do divide our being; they be- 
come 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, 

And look like heralds of eternity; 

They pass like spirits of the past — 
they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have 
power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — 
what they will. 

And shake us with the vision that's 
gone by. 

The dream of vanished shadows — 
Are they so ? 

Is not the past all shadow ? What 
are they ? 






98 



BYRON. 



Creations of the mind ? — The mind 

can make 
Substance, and people planets of its 

own 
With beings brighter than have been, 

and give 
A breath to form Avhich can outlive 

all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I 

dreamed 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a 

thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of 

years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



{From Don Juan.] 

THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of 
Greece! [sung. 

Where burning Sappho loved and 
Where grew the arts of Mar and 
peace, — 
Where Delos rose and Phoebus 
sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
Have found the fame your shores 
refuse : 
Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the 
Blest." 

The moimtains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dreamed that Greece might still 
be free ; 

For standing on the Persian's grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky lirow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis: 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And M'hen the sun set, where were 
they ? 



And where are they ? and where art 
thou, 

M^ country ? On thy voiceless shore 
The heroic lay is timeless now — 

The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered 
race, 
To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
For what is left the poet here ? 
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a 
tear. 

,Must loe but weep o'er days more 
blest ? 
Must we but blush ? — Our fathers 
bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy 
breast 
A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylaj ! 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain ; strike other 
chords ; 
Fill high the cup with Samian 
wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx 
gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave, — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
We will not think of themes like 
these ! 




THE ISLES OF GREECE. 



Page 



It made Anacreon's song divine: 
He served — but served Poly- 
crates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 
Was freedom's best and bravest 
friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 
Oh! that the present hour would 
lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian 
wine ! 
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perliaps, some seed is 

sown. 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and 
sells ; 
In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells : 
But Turkisli force and Latin fraud 
Would break your shield, however 
broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian 
wine ! 
Our virgins dance beneath the 
shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle 
slaves. 



Place me on Sunium's marble steep. 
Where nothing save the waves 
and 1 
May hear our mutual murnun-s sweep : 
There, swan-like, let me sing and 
die; 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian 



[ From the Prophecy of Dante.] 
GENIUS. 

Many are poets who have never 
penned 
Their inspiration, and perchance, 

the best ; 
They felt, and loved and died, but 
would not lend 
Their thoughts to meaner beings; 
they compressed 
The God within them, and rejoined 

the stars 
Unlaurelled upon earth, but far 
more blessed 
Than those who are degraded by the 
jars 
Of passion, and their frailties 

linked to fame. 
Conquerors of high renown, but 
full of scars. 
Many are poets, but without the 
name ; 
For Avhat is poesy but to create 
From overf eeling good or ill ; and 
aim 
At an external life beyond our fate 
And be the new Prometheus of 

new men. 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and 
then, too late, 
Finding the pleasure given repaid 
with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the 

bestower. 
Who, having lavished his high 
gift in vain 
Lies chained to his lone rock by the 
sea-shore ! 
So be it; we can bear. — But thus 

all they 
"Wliose intellect is an o'ermastering 
power, 
Wliich still recoils from its encum- 
bering clay. 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The forms which their creation 
may essay. 
Are bards; the kindled marble's bust 
may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking 

brow 
Than aught less than the Homeric 



100 



BYRON. 



One noble stroke with a whole life 
may glow, 

Or deify the canvas till it shine 

With beauty so surpassing all be- 
low, 
That they who kneel to idols so di- 
vine 

Break no commandment, for high 
heaven is there 

Transfused, transfigurated : and 
the line 
Of poesy which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings of our 
thought reflected. 

Can do no more : then let the artist 
share 
The palm ; he shares the peril, and 
dejected 

Faints o'er the labor unapproved 
—Alas! 

Despair and genius are too oft con- 
nected. 



{From Childe Harold.} 

THE MISERY OF EXCESS. 

TO INEZ. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, 
Alas! I cannot smile again: 

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in 
vain. 

And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang, even thou must fail to 
soothe ? 

It is not love, it is not hate. 
Nor low ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prize the most! 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see ; 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings : 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm foi' 
me. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 

That will not look beyond the tomb. 
And cannot hope for rest before. 

What exile from himself can flee ? 
To zones, though more and more 
remote. 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 
The blight of life — the demon 
Thought. 

Yet, others rapt in pleasure seem. 
And taste of all that I forsake; 

Oh ! may they still of transport 
dream. 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake! 

Through many a clime 'tis mine to 

go, 
With many a retrospection curst; 
And all my solace is to know. 
What e'er betides, I've known the 

worst. 

What is that worst ? Nay, do not 
ask — 
In pity from the search forbear: 
Smile on — nor venture to mimask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell 
that's there. 



[From Childe Harold.] 
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAX. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless 

woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely 

shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep sea, and music in its 

roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature 

more. 
From these our interviews, in which 

I steal 
From all I may be, or have been be- 
fore. 
To mingle Avith the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot 

all conceal. 



Roll on, thou deep and dark blue 

Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee 

In vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his 

control 
Stops with the shore; — upon the 

watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 

remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his 

own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of 

rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bub- 
bling groan. 
Without a grave, uuknelled, uncof- 

tined, and unknown. 

The armaments which thunderstrike 

the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 

quake. 
And monarclis tremble in their cap- 
itals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 

make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 

flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, 

which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of 

Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in 

all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, 

what are they ? 
Thy waters waslied tliem power while 

they were free. 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores 

obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their 

decay 
Has dried up reahiis to deserts: — 

not so thou; — 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 

play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine 

azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 

rollest now. 



Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze or 

gale, or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, 

and sublime — 
The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy 

slime 
The monsters of the deep are made : 

each zone 
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, 
fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and 

my joy [to be 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: 

from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they 
to me • (sea 

Were a delight; and if the freshening 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleas- 
ing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And, trusted to thy billows far and 

near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — 
as I do here. 



[From Childe Harold.'] 

CALM AND TEMPEST AT NIGHT 
ON LAKE LEMAN {GENEVA). 

Clear, placid Leman! thy con- 
trasted lake. 
With the wide world I dwelt in is a 

thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, 

to forsake [spring. 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless Aving 
To waft me from distraction ; once 

I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft 

murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice 

reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er 

have been so moved. 



102 



BYRON. 




It is the hush of night, and all be- 
tween 

Thy margin and the mountains, 
dusk, yet clear, 

Mellowed and mingling, yet dis- 
tinctly seen, 

Save darkened Jura, whose capt 
heights appear 

Precipitously steep; and drawing 
near 

There breathes a living fragrance 
from tlie shore. 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; 
on the ear 

Drops the light drip of the sus- 
pended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good- 
night carol more. 

He is an evening reveller who 

makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his 

till; 
At intervals, some bird from out 

the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is 

still. 
There seems a floating whisper on 

the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight 

dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they 

infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit 

of Iier hues. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of 

heaven, 
If in your bright leaves we would 

read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be 

forgiven, 
That in" our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal 

state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for 

ye are 
A beauty, and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from 

afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have 

named themselves a star. 



All heaven and earth are still — 

though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when 

feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts 

too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : — 

From the high host 
Of stars, to the lulled lake and 

mountain-coast. 
All is concentred in a life intense. 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf 

is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a 

sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and 

defence. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so 

felt 
In solitude, where we are least 

alone ; 
A truth, which through our being, 

then doth melt. 
And purifies from self : it is a tone. 
The soul and source of music, which 

makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a 

charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's stone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 

'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial 

power to harm. 

Not vainly did the early Persian 

make 
His altar the high places and the 

peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and 

thus take 
A fit and unwalled temple, there to 

seek 
The Spirit in whose honor shrines 

are weak, 
Upreared of human hands. Come, 

and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth 

or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, 

earth and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circum- 
scribe thy prayer! 



BYRON. 



103 



The sky is changed '? — and such a 

change! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are 

wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is 

the light 
Of a darkeye in woman ! Far along 
From peak to peak, the rattling 

crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder! Not froin 

one lone cloud. 
But evei-y mountain now hath 

found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her 

misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to 

her aloud ! 

And this is in the night : — Most 
glorious night ! 

Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let 
me be 

A sharer in thy fierce and far de- 
light. — 

A portion of the tempest and of 
thee! 

How the lit lake shines, a phos- 
phoric sea. 

And the big rain comes dancing to 
the earth! 

And now again 'tis black, — and 
now, the glee 

Of the loud hills shakes with its 
mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young 
earthquake's birth. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, 
lightnings! ye! 

With night, and clouds, and thun- 
der, and a soul 

To make these felt, and feeling, 
well may be 

Things that have made me watch- 
ful ; the far roll 

Of your departing voices, is the 
knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless, — if I 
rest. goal ? 

But where of ye, O tempests, is the 

Are ye like those within the human 
breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, 
some high nest! 



Could I embody and unbosom now 

That which is most within me, — 
could I wreak 

My thoughts upon expression, and 
thus throw 

Soul, heart, mind, passions, feel- 
ings, strong or weak. 

All that I would have sought, and 
all I seek. 

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — 
into one word. 

And that one word were light- 
ning, I would speak; 

But as it is I live and die imheard. 
With a most voiceless thought 
sheathing it as a sword. 



iFrom Childe Harold.] 
BYRON-S REMARKABLE PROPHECY. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not 

that now 
I shrink from what is suffered : let 

him speak 
"Wlio hath beheld decline upon my 

brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave 

it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words 

disperse. 
Though 1 be ashes ; a far hour shall 

wreak [verse. 

The deep prophetic fulness of this 
And pile on human heads the momi- 

tain of my curse ! 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — 

Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold 

it. Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my 

lot? 
Have I not suffered things to be for- 
given ? 
Have I not had my brain seared, my 

heart riven, 
Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's 

life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom 

I survey. 



104 



BYRON. 



From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 

Have I not seen what human things 
could do ? 

From the loud roar of foaming cal- 
umny 

To the small whisper of the as paltry 
few, 

And subtler venom of the reptile 
crew, 

The Janus glance of whose signifi- 
cant eye, 

Learning to lie with silence, would 
seem true. 

And without utterance, save the 
shrug or sigh, 

Deal round to happy fools its speech- 
less obloquy. 

But I have lived, and have not lived 
in vain : 

My mind may lose its force, my blood 
its tire. 

And my frame perish even in con- 
quering pain; 

But there is that within me that shall 
tire 

Torture and Time, and breathe when 
I expire. 

Something vmearthly, which they 
deem not of 

Like the remembered tone of a mute 
lyre. 

Shall on their softened spirits sink, 
and move 

In hearts all rocky now the late re- 
morse of love. 



[From Chihle Harold.-] 
ONE PRESENCE WANTING. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 
FroM'ns o'er the wide and winding 

Rhine, 
WTiose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the 

vine, 
And hills all rich with blossomed 

trees. 
And fields which promise corn and 

wine. 



And scattered cities crowning these. 
Whose far white walls along them 

shine, 
Have strewed a scene, which I should 

see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

And peasant girls, with deep-blue 
eyes. 

And hands which offer early flowers, 

Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 

Through green leaves lift their walls 
of gray 

And many a rock which steeply low- 
ers, 

And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 

13ut one thing want these banks of 
Ehine, — 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they 

touch, 
I know that they must withered 

be. 
But yet reject them not as such : 
For I have cherished them as dear 
Because they yet may meet thine 

eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even 

here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping 

nigh. 
And knowest them gathered by the 

Rhine, 
And offered from my heart to thine. 

The river nobly foams and flows. 
The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying roimd : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might 

bound 
Through life to dwell delighted 

here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following 

mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of 

Rhine! 



BYEON. 



105 



\_From Childe Harold.] 
GREE CE, 

And yet how lovely in thine age of 
woe, 

Land of lost gods and godlike men ! 
art thou ! 

Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of 
snow ; 

Proclaim thee nature's varied fa- 
vorite now ; 

Thy fanes, thy temples to thy sur- 
face bow, 

Commingling slowly with heroic 
earth, 

Broke by the share of eveiy rustic 
plough : 

So perish monuments of mortal 
birth. 
So perish all in turn, save well-re- 
corded worth; 



Save where some solitary column 
mourns 

Above its i^rostrate brethren of the 
cave; 

Save where Tritonia's airy shrine 
adorns 

Colonna's cliff, and gleams along 
the wave ; 

Save o'er some warrior's half-for- 
gotten grave. 

Where the gray stones and unmo- 
lested grass 

Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 

Where strangers only, not regard- 
less pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, 
and sish " Alas! " 



Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags 

as wild : 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant 

are thy fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva 

smiled, 
And still his honeyed wealth Hy- 

mettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant 

fortress builds. 
The freeborn wanderer of the 

mountain air: 



Apollo still thy long, long summer 

gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles 
glare 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature 
still is fair. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, 

holy ground ; 
Xo earth of thine is lost in vulgar 

mould. 
But one vast realm of wonder 

spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly 

told, [behold 

Till the sense aches with gazing to 
The scenes our earliest dreams have 

dwelt upon: 
Each hill and dale, each deepening 

glen and wold 
Defies the power which crushed thy 

temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena' s tower, but spares 

gray Marathon. 



[From Childe Harold.] 

APOSTROPHE TO ADA, THE 
POET'S DAUGHTER. 

My daughter! with thy name this 

song begun — 
My daughter! with thy name thus 

much shall end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — 

but none 
Can be so wrapped in thee; thou 

art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years 

extend ; 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst 

behold, 
My voice shall with thy future vis- 
ions blend. 
And reach into thy heart, — when 

mine is cold, 
A token and a tone, even from thy 

father's mould. 

To aid thy mind's development, — 

to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit 

and see 



Almost thy very growth, — to view 
thee catch 

Knowledge of objects, — wonders 
yet to thee ! 

To hold thee lightly on a gentle 
knee. 

And print on thy soft cheek a par- 
ent's kiss, — 

This, it should seem, was not re- 
served for me; 

Yet this was in my natm^e, — as it 
is, 
I know not what is there, yet some- 
thing like to this. 



Yet, though dull hate, as duty 

should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me; 

though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell 

still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken 

claim: 
Though the grave closed between 

us, 'twere the same. 
I know that thou wilt love me; 

though to drain 
My blood from out thy being were 

an aim. 
And an attainment, — all would be 

in vain, — 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that 

more than life retain. 



The child of love, — though born 

in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of 

thy sire 
These were the elements, — and 

thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but 

thy fire 
Shall be more tempered, and thy 

hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! 

O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I 

now respire. 
Fain would I waft such blessing 

upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst 

have been to me ! 



{From Chitde Harold.] 
WATERLOO. 

There was a sound of revelry by 
night, 

And Belgium's capital had gath- 
ered then 

Her beauty and her chivalry, and 
bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women 
and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily; 
and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous 
swell. 

Soft eyes looked love, to eyes which 
spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage- 
bell; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it? — No: 'twas 
but the wind. 

Or tlie car rattling o'er the stony 
street ; 

On with the dance ! let joy be un- 
confined ; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and 
Pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing hours with 
flying feet — 

But, hark ! — that heavy sound 
breaks in once more. 

As if the clouds its echo v/ould re- 
peat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than 
before ! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the can- 
non's opening roar! 

And there was mounting in hot 
haste : the steed. 

The mustering stjuadron, and the 
clattering car. 

Went pouring forward with impet- 
uous speed. 

And swiftly forming in the ranks 
of war; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal 
afar ; 

And near, the beat of the alarming 
drum 



BYRON. 



107 



Roused up the soldier ere the morn- 
ing star; 

While thronged the citizens with 
terror dumb, 
Or whispering with white lips "The 
foe! They come! they come!" 



And Ardennes waves above them 

her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as 

they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er 

grieves. 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the 

grass 
Which now beneath them, but 

above shall grow 
In its next verdiu-e, when this fiery 

mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall 

moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lustv 

life. 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly 

gay, 

The midnight brought the signal 

sound of strife, " 
The morn the marshalling in arms, 

— the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, 

which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with 

other clay, 
Wliich her own clay shall cover, 

heaped and pent. 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in 

one red burial blent! 



ON COMPLETING MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR. 

[His last verses. ] 

'Tis time this heart should be mi- 
moved. 
Since others it has ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
Still let me love: 



My days are in the yellow leaf; 
The flowers and fruits of love are 
gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A fimeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not /(ere — 
Such thoughts should shake my 
soul, nor now. 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner and the 
field. 
Glory and Greece, aroimd me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake ! ) 
Awake, my spirit! Think through 
li'hom 
Thy life-blood tracks Its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, rclnj 
live ? 
The land of honorable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than 
found — 
A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy 
ground. 

And take thy rest. 



Thomas Campbell. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

What's hallowed ground '? Has 

earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod, 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallowed ground — where, 

mourned, and missed. 
The lips repose our love has kissed: — 
But Where's their memory's mansion? 
Is't 
Yon churchyard's bowers! 
No! in ourselves their souls exist, 
A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual 
bound : [wound, 

The spot where love's first links were 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound. 

And up to Heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were 

told 
Run molten still in memory's mould; 

And will not cool, 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

AVhat hallows ground where heroes 

sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you 

heap I 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 
Their coral tomb : 

But strew his ashes to the wind 
Whose sword or voice has served 

mankind — 
And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 



Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? — 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
Her drums! and rend Heaven's reek- 
ing space ! 
The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, — 
Though Death's pale horse lead on 
the chase, — 
Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men 

kneel 
To Heaven! — but Heaven rebukes 

my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the s^\ord's appeal 
To Peace and Love. 

Peace ! Love ! the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's 

shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temjiles 
shine, 
AVhere they are not; 
The heart alone can make divine 
Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 
And pompous rights in domes au- 
gust ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's 
rust 
Belie the vamit. 
That men can bless one pile of dust 
With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, 

man ! 
The temples — creeds themselves, 

grow wan! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 
Its space is Heaven ! 



CAMPBELL. 



109 



Jts roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's 

feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though imheard their 
pealing 
By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death your worlds ob- 
scure ? 
Else why so swell the thouglitsat your 

Aspect above '? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us 
sure 
Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time : 
That man's regenerate soul from 
crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what 

gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of 

worth ! — 
Peace! Independence! Trutli! go 
forth 
Earth's compass round; 
And your high priesthood shall make 
earth 
All hallowed ground. 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in 
gloom, 

The "sun himself must die. 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to 
sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould. 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime! 



The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man! 
Some had expired in flight, — the 

brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands; 

In plague and famine some! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
And ships were drifting witli the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the 
wood 

As if a storm passed by. 
Saying, " We are twins in death, 

proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis Mercy bids thee go; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

"What though beneath thee man put 
forth 
His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made tire, flood, and 
earth, 
The vassals of the will ? — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
Thou dim discrowned king of day; 

For all these trophied arts 
And triumplis that beneath thee 

sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang 
Entailed on human liearts. 

" Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to. writhe; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

" Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 



"My lips that speak thy dirge of 

death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling 
breath 
To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my 

pall, — 
The majesty of darkness shall 
Receive my parting ghost ! 

" This spirit shall return to Him 

Who gave its heavenly spark: 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall l)e dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No! it shall live again and shine 
In bliss unknown "to beams of thine, 

By Him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity. 
Who robbed the grave of Victoiy, — 

And took the siting from Death ! 

" Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face. 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
The darkening univei-se defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! " 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

A NAVAL ODE. 

Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand 

years, 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep. 
While the stormy winds do blow: 
While the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave ; 



Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep. 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
No towers along the steep; 
Her march is o'er the mountain- 
waves, 
Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak. 
She quells the floods below — 
As they roar on the shore. 
When the stormy winds do blow; 
When the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

W^hen the fiery fight is heard no more 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



HOW DELICIOUS IS THE WIN- 
NING. 

How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning. 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying! 

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing. 
Love has bliss, but love has ruing; 
Other smiles may make you fickle. 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays, Avhen sorest chidden; 
Laughs and flies, when pressed and 
bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odor to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Then bind Love to last for ever ! 




CAMPBELL. 



Ill 



Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and 

captured, 
Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or tlie ring-dove's neck from chang- 
ing? 
No! nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there's no untying. 



LORD UL LIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands 
bound. 

Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 

To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now who be ye, would cross Loch- 
gyle. 

This dark and stormy water ? " 
" O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter, 

"And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together. 

For should he find vis in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ? " 

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready, — 

It is not for your silver bright; 
But for your winsome lady : 

"And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry : 
So though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace. 
The water-wraith was shrieking; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 



But still as wilder blew the wind. 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glenrode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste! " the lady cries, 
' ' Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." — 

The boat has left a stonny land, 

A stormy sea befoi'e her, 
When, oh! too strong for human 
hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing; 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; 

His Avrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm 
and shade. 

His child he did discover; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 

And one was round her lover. 

"Comeback! comeback!" he cried 
in grief, 

" Across this stormy water: 
And 1"11 forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter! — O my'daughter ! " 

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed 
the shore, 

Return or aid preventing: — 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 



FIELD FLOWERS. 

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse 

you, 'tis true. 
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon 

you, 
For ye waft me to summers of old. 
When the earth teemed around me 

with fairy delight, 
And when daisies and buttercups 

gladdened my sight, 
Like treasures of silver and gold. 



I love you for lulling me back into 

dreams 
Of the blue Highland mountains and 

echoing streams, 
And of birchen glades breathing 

their balm, 
While the deer was seen glancing in 

sunshine remote, 
And the deep mellow crush of the 

wood-pigeon's note 
Made music that sweetened the 

calm. 

Xot a pastoral song has a pleasanter 

tune 
Than ye speak to my heart, little 

wildings of June: 
Of old ruinous castles ye tell. 
Where I thought it delightful your 

beauties to find, 
When the magic of Nature first 

breathed on my mind, 
And your blossoms were part of her 

spell. 

Even now what affections the violet 
awakes ; 

What loved little islands, twice seen 
in their lakes. 
Can the wild water-lily restore; 

What landscapes I read in the prim- 
rose's looks, 

And what pictures of pebbled and 
minnowy brooks. 
In the vetches that tangled their 
shore. 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart 

ye were dear. 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear 
Had scathed ray existence's bloom; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's 

passionless stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit 
my age, [tomb. 

And I wisli you to grow on my 



HOHENLINDEHf. 

Ox Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 



But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Connnanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed. 
To join the dreadful reveliy. 

Then shook the hills with thunder 

riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle 

driven. 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On ! ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Mimich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding- 
sheet ! 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor 

exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy 

and chill ; 
For his country he sighed, when at 

twilight repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten 

hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's 

sad devotion. 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of 

the ocean, 



CAMPBELL. 



n\ 



Where once in the fire of his youthful 
emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin 
go bragh ! 

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart- 
brolien stranger; 

" The wild deer and wolf to a covert 
can flee, 

But I have no refuge from famine 
and danger, 
A home and a country remain not 
to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bow- 
ers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I 
spend the sweet hours. 

Or cover my harp with the wild- 
woven flowers. 
And strilve to the numbers of Erin 
go bragh! 

"Erin, my country! though sad and 

forsalien, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten 

shore ; 
But, alas! in a far foreign land I 

awaken. 
And sigh for the friends who can 

meet me no more! [me 

O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace 
In a mansion of peace — where no 

perils can chase me ? 
Never again shall my brothers em- 
brace me ? 
They died to defend me, or lived to 

deplore ! 

"Where is ray cabin-door, fast by 

the wild wood ? 
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its 

fall? 
Where is the mother that looked on 

my childhood ? 
And where is the bosom-friend, 

dearer than all ? 
Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned 

by pleasure, 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading 

treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain drop, may fall 

witliout measure. 
But rapture and beauty they can 

not recall. 



"Yet all its sad recollections sup- 
pressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can 

draw : 
Erin! an exile bequeathes thee this 

blessing! 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go 

bragh ! 
Buried and cold when my heart stills 

her motion, 
Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of 

the ocean ! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing 

aloud with devotion, — 
Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh ! " * 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part ! 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art — 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
Thy form to please me so. 

As when 1 dreamed of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws. 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of 
beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green, undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst 
shine, 
How came the world's gray fathers 
forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

♦ Ireland my darling— Ireland forever. 



And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O'er mountains yet untrod, 

Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
The first-made anthem rang, 

On earth delivered from the deep, 
And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy, 
Be still the prophet's theme! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, 

When glittering in the freshened 
fields 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower and town, 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark. 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 



THE RIVER OF LIFE. 

The more we live, more brief appear 
Our life's succeeding stages: 

A day to childhood seems a year. 
And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth. 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, 
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 

Ye stars, that measure" life to man. 
Why seem your courses quicker ? 



When joys have lost their bloom and 
breath, 

And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid ? 

It may be strange — yet who would 

change 
Time's course to slower speeding, 
When one by one our friends have 

gone 
And left our bosoms bleeding ? 

Heaven gives our years of fading 
strength 
Indemnifying fleetness ; 
And those of youth, a seeming 
length, 
Proportioned to their sweetness. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North, 
Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crowTi, 
And her arms along the deep proudly 

shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand. 
In a bold determined hand ; 
And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line: 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
"Hearts of oak! " our captain cried, 

^\•hen each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 



WA 



CAMPBELL. 



115 



Again! again! again! 

Anil the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back : 

Their shots along the deep slowly 

boom; 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 
As they strike the shattered sail ; 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the wave; 

" Ye are brothers! ye are men! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

So peace instead of death let us 

bring; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
With the crew, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 
To our king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
That he gave her woimds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose. 
As Death withdrew his shades from 

the day ; 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woful sight, 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze. 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light! 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
Let us think of them that sleep. 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinoi'e I 

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
Once so faithful and so true. 
On the deck of fame that died 
With the gallant, good Riou : 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er 

their grave ! 
While the billow mournful rolls. 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the'^l:)rave! 



SONG. 

Eakl March looked on his dying 
child. 
And smit with grief to view her — 
" The youth," he cried, " whom I ex- 
iled. 
Shall be restored to woo her." 

She's at the window many an hour 

His coming to discover: 
And he looks up to Ellen's bower. 

And she looks on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale he knew her not. 
Though her snlile on him was 
dwelling, 

" And am I then forgot — forgot ? " 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs. 
Her cheek is cold as ashes; 

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those 
eyes 
To lift their silken lashes. 



TRIBUTE TO VICTORIA. 

Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep 
Has touched, and broken slavery's 
chain; 

Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves 
Our hearts within her own domain. 

Her spirit is devout, and burns 
With thoughts averse to bigotiy; 

Yet she, herself the idol, turns 
Our thoughts into idolatiy, 



[From the Pleasures of Hope.] 

THE DISTANT IX NATURE AND 
EXPERIENCE. 

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethe- 
real bow- 
Spans with bright arch the glittering 

hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the mus- 
ing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles 
with the sky ? 



116 



CAMPBELL. 



Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint 
appear 

More sweet than all the landscape 
smiling near ? — 

'Tis distance lends enchantment to 
the view, 

And rohes the mountain in its azure 
hue. 

Thus, with delight, we linger to sur- 
vey 

The promised joys of life's unmeas- 
ured way ; 

Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered 
scene 

More pleasing seems than all the past 
hath been, 

And every form, that Fancy can re- 
pair 

From dark oblivion, grows divinely 
there 

Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet gar- 
den grow 

Wreaths for each toil, a charm for 
every woe; 

Won by their sweets, in Nature's 
languid hour, 

The wayworn pilgrim seeks thy sum- 
mer bower ; 

There, as the wild bee murmurs on 
the wing, 

What peaceful dreams thy handmaid 
spirits bring! 

What viewless forms th' ^olian 
organ play. 

And sweep the furrowed lines of 
anxious thought away. 



[From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
HOPE nV ADVEPSITY. 

Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's 
command. 

When Israel marched along the des- 
ert land, 

Blazed through the night on lonely 
wilds afar. 

And told the path, — a never-setting 
star: 

So, heavenly Genius, in thy course 
divine, 

Hope is thy star, her light is ever 
thine. 



[From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 

Let winter come! let polar spirits 
sweep 

The darkening world, and tempest- 
troubled deep ! 

Though boundless snows the with- 
ered heath deform. 

And the dim sun scarce wanders 
through the storm, 

Yet shall the smile of social love re- 
pay, 

With mental light, the melancholy 
day ! 

And, when its short and sullen noon 
is o'er. 

The ice-chained waters slumbering 
on the shore. 

How bright the fagots in his little hall 

Blaze on the hearth, and warm his 
pictured wall ! 

How blest he names, in Love's famil- 
iar tone. 

The kind, fair friend, by nature 
marked his own ; 

And, in the waveless mirror of his 
mind. 

Views the fleet years of pleasure left 
behind. 

Since when her empire o'er his heart 
began ! 

Since first he called her his before the 
holy man ! 

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome. 
And light the wintry paradise of 

home ; 
And let the half-micurtained window 

hail 
Some way-worn man benighted in the 

vale! 
Now, while the moaning night-wind 

rages high, 
As sweep the shot-stars down the 

troubled sky. 
While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide 

circle play. 
And bathe in lurid light the milky- 
way, 
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and 

the shower. 
Some pleasing page shall charm the 

solemn hour — 



With pathos shall command, with wit 

beguile, 
A generous tear of anguish, or a 

smile. 



[From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
APOSTROPHE TO HOPE. 

Unfading Hope ! when life's last 
embers burn, 

When soul to soul, and dust to dust 
return ! 

Heaven to thy charge resigns the 
awful hour ! 

Oh! then, thy kingdom comes, im- 
mortal Power! 

What though each spark of earth- 
born rapture fly 

The quivering lip, pale cheek, and 
closing eye ! 

Bright to the soul thy seraph hands 
convey 

The morning dream of life's eternal 
day — 

Then, then the triumph and the 
trance begin. 

And all the phoenix spirit burns 
within ! 



[From The Pleasures of Hope.] 

AGAINST SKEPTICAL PHILOSO- 
PHY. 

Ake these the pompous tidings ye 

proclaim, 
Lights of the world, and demigods of 

Fame '? 
Is this your triu)nj)h — this your 

proud applause. 
Children of Truth, and champion of 

her cause ? 
For this hath Science searched on 

weaiy wing, 
By shore and sea — each mute and 

living thing! 
Launched with Iberia's pilot from 

the steep. 
To worlds unknown and isles beyond 

the deep ? 



Or round the cope her living chariot 

driven, 
And wheeled in triumph through the 

signs of Heaven. 
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wan- 
dered there, 
To waft us home the message of des- 
pair '? 
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow 

to suit. 
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling 

fruit ! 
Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that 

Murder rears. 
Blood-nursed, and watered by the 

widow's tears. 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so 

dread. 
As waves the night-shade round the 

skeptic head. 
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's 

chain ? 
I smile on death, if Heavenward 

Hope remain: 
But, if the warring winds of Nature's 

strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life, 
If Chance awakened, inexorable power 
This fi'ail and feverish being of an 

hour ; 
Doomed o'er the world's precarious 

scene to sweep. 
Swift as the tempest travels on the 

deep. 
To know Delight but by her parting 

smile, 
And toil, and wish, and weep a little 

while; 
Then melt, ye elements, that formed 

in vain 
This troubled pulse and visionaiy 

brain ! 
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of 

my doom, 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to 

the tomb! 
Truth, ever lovely, — since the world 

began. 
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of 

man. — 
How can thy words from balmy slum- 
ber start 
Reposing Virtue pillowed on the 

heart ! 



118 



CABEW— CARLYLE. 



Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder 


Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor 


rolled, 


elate, 


And that were true whicla Nature 


The doom that bars us from a better 


never told. 


fate; 


Let Wisdom smile not on her con- 


But, sad as angels for the good man's 


quered field 


sin, 


No rapture dawns, no treasure is re- 


Weep to record, and blush to give 


vealed ! 


it in! 



Thomas Carew. 



DISDAIN RETURNED. 

He that loves a rosy cheek 
Or a coral lip admires. 

Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires; 

As old Time makes these decay. 

So his flames must waste away. 



But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 

W^here these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 



No tears, Celia, now shall win. 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched the soul within 
And find nouglit but pride and 
scorn ; 

I have learned thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou ! 



ASK ME NO MORE. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose. 
For in your beauty's orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep, 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day. 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past. 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters and keeps M'arm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night, 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The pha?nix builds her spicy nest. 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



Thomas Carlyle. 



TO-DA Y. 

So here hath been dawning another 

blue day ! 
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless 

away '? 

Out of eternity this new day was born ; 
Into eternity at night will return. 



Behold it aforetime, no eye ever did ; 
So soon it forever from all eyes is 
hid. 

Here hath been dawning another 

blue day ; 
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless 

away. 



CABY. 



119 



CUI BONO? 

What is hope ? A smiling rainbow 
Children follow through the net : 

'Tis not here — still yonder, yonder; 
Never urchin found it yet. 

What is life ? A thawing iceboard 
On a sea with sunny shore : 



Gay we sail ; it melts beneath us ; 
We are sunk, and seen no more. 

What is man ? A foolish baby ; 

Vainly strives, and fights, and 
frets : 
Demanding all, deserving nothing. 

One small grave is all "he gets. 



Alice Gary. 



LIFE. 

Solitude ! Life is inviolate soli- 
tude ; 
Never was truth so apart from the 

dreaming 
As lietli the selfhood inside of the 
seeming. 
Guarded with triple shield out of all 
quest, 
So that the sisterhood nearest and 

sweetest. 
So that the brotherhood kindest, 
completest, 
Is but an exchanging of signals at 
best. 

Desolate ! Life is so dreary and 
desolate. 
Women and men in the crowd 

meet and mingle. 
Yet with itself every soul standeth 
single. 
Deep out of sympathy moaning its 
moan ; 
Holding and having its brief ex- 
ultation ; 
Making its lonesome and low la- 
mentation ; 
Fighting its terrible conflicts alone. 

Separate ! Life is so sad and so sep- 
arate. 
Under love's ceiling with roses for 

lining. 
Heart mates with heart in a tender 
entwining. 
Yet never the sweet cup of love fill- 
eth full. 



Eye looks in eye with a question- 
ing wonder. 

Why are we thus in our meeting 
asunder ? 
Why are our pulses so slow and so 
dull? 

Fruitless, fruitionless ! Life is fru- 
itionless; 
Never the heaped-up and generous 

measure ; 
Never the substance of satisfied 
pleasure ; 
Never the moment with rapture 
elate; 
But draining the chalice, we long 

for the chalice. 
And live as an alien inside of our 
palace, 
Bereft of our title and deeds of estate. 

Pitiful ! Life is so poor and so piti- 
ful. 
Cometh the cloud on the goldenest 

weather ; 
Briefly the man and his youth stay 
together. 
Falleth the frost ere the harvest is in, 
And conscience descends from the 

open aggression 
To timid and troubled and tearful 
concession, 
And downward and down into parley 
with sin. 

Purposeless ! Life is so wayward and 
purposeless. 
Always before us the object is 
shifting, 



120 



CARY. 



Always the means and the method 
are drifting. 
We rue what is done — what is un- 
done deplore ; 

More striving for high things than 
things that are holy. 

And so we go down to the valley 
so lowly, 
Wherein there is work, and device 
never more. 

Vanity, vanity ! All would be vanity. 
Whether in seeking or getting our 

pleasures, 
Whether in spending or hoarding 
our treasures. 
Whether in indolence, whether in 
strife — 
Whether in feasting and whether 

in fasting. 
But for our faith in the Love ever- 
lasting — 
But for the Life that is better than 
life. 



THE FERR Y OF GALL A WA Y. 

Ix the stormy waters of Gallaway 
My boat had been idle the livelong 

day, 
Tossing and tumbling to and fro, 
For the wind was high and the tide 

was low. 

The tide was low and the wind was 

high, 
And we were heavy, my heart and I, 
For not a traveller all the day 
Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway. 

At set o' th' sun, the clouds out- 
spread 

Like wings of darkness overhead, 

VMien, out o' th' west, my eyes took 
heed 

Of a lady, riding at full speed. 

Tlie hoof-strokes struck on the flinty 

hill 
Like silver ringing on silver, till 
I saw the veil in her fair hand float, 
i\i\A flutter a signal for my boat. 



The waves ran backward as if aware 
Of a presence more than mortal fair, 
And my little craft leaned down and 

lay 
With her side to th' sands o' th' Gal- 
laway. 

" Haste, good boatman! haste! " she 

cried, 
" And row me over the other side! " 
And she stripped from her finger the 

shining ring. 
And gave it me for the ferrying. 

" Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go, 
For the wind is high and th' tide is 

low, 
And rocks, like dragons, lie in the 

wave, — 
Slip back on your finger the ring you 

gave! " 

" Nay, nay! for the rocks will be 

melted down, 
And the waters, they never will let 

me drown, 
And the wind a pilot will prove to 

thee. 
For my dying lover, he waits for 

me!" 

Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur 
She put in my hand, but I answered 

her: 
" The wind is high and the tide is 

low, — 
I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " 

Her face grew deadly white with pain, 

And she took her champing steed by 
th' mane. 

And bent his neck to th' ribbon and 
spur 

That lay in my hand, — but I an- 
swered her: 

" Though you should proffer me 

twice and thrice 
Of ring and ribbon and steed the 

price, — 
The leave of kissing your lily-like 

hand ! 
I never could row you safe to th' 

land." 



CAJRY. 



121 



'" Then God have mercy! " she faint- 
ly cried, 

'• For ray lover is dying the other 
side! 

O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway, 

Be parted, and make me a path, I 
pray ! ' ' 

Of a sudden, the sun shone large and 

bright 
As if he were staying away the night; 
And the rain on the river fell as 

sweet 
As the pitying tread of an angel's 

feet. 

And spanning the water from edge 

to edge 
A rainbow stretched like a golden 

bridge. 
And I put the rein in her hand so 

fair. 
And she sat in her saddle th' queen 

o' th' air. 

And over the river, from edge to 
edge. 

She rode on the shifting and shim- 
mering bridge. 

And landing safe on the farther 
side, — 

"Love is thy conqueror, Death!" 
she cried. 



COUNSEL. 

Seek not to walk by borrowed light. 
But keep unto thine own : 

Do what thou doest with thy might. 
And trust thyself alone ! 

Work for some good, nor idly lie 

Within the human hive ; 
And though the outward man should 
die, 

Keep thou the heart alive ! 

Strive not to banish pain and doubt. 

In pleasure's noisy din; 
The peace thou seekest for without 

Is only found within. 



If fortune disregard thy claim. 
By worth, her slight attest; 

Nor blush and hang the head for 
shame 
When thou hast done thy best. 

Disdain neglect, ignore despair. 
On loves and friendships gone 

Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, 
And mount right up and on ! 



A DUE AM. 

I DREAMED I had a plot of ground. 
Once when I chanced asleep to 
drop, 
And that a green hedge fenced it 
round. 
Cloudy with roses at the top. 

I saw a hundred mornings rise, — 
So far a little dream may reach, — 

And Spring with Summer in her eyes 
Making the chief est charm of each. 

A thousand vines were climbing o'er 
The hedge, I thought, but as I tried 

To pull them down, for evermore 
The flowers dropt off the other side ! 

Waking, I said, "These things are 
signs 

Sent to instruct us that 'tis ours 
Duly to keep and dress our vines, — 

Waiting in patience for the flowers. 

" And when the angel feared of all 
Across my hearth its shadow 
spread. 

The rose that climbed my garden wall 
Has bloomed the other side," I said. 



SPEXT AND MISSPEXT. 

Stay yet a little longer in the sky, 

O golden color of the evening sun! 
Let not the sweet day in its sweet- 
ness die. 
While my day's work is only just 
begun. 



122 



CAR v. 



Counting the happy chances strewn 
about 
Thick as the leaves, and saying 
wliich was best, 
Tlie rosy Hghts of morning all went 
out. 
And it was burning noon, and 
time to rest. 

Then leaning low upon a piece of 
shade, 
Fringed round with violets and 
pansies sweet, 
"My heart and I," I said, "will be 
delayed. 
And plan our work while cools the 
sultry heat." 

Deep in the hills, and out of silence 
vast, 
A waterfall played up his silver 
tune ; 
My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams 
at last. 
And held me late into the after- 
noon. 

But when the idle pleasures ceased 
to please. 
And I awoke, and not a plan was 
planned. 
Just as a drowning man at what he 
sees 
Catches for life, I caught the thing 
at hand. 

And so life's little work-day hour has 
all 
Been spent and misspent doing 
what I could, 
And in regrets and efforts to recall 
The chance of having, being, what 
I would. 

And so sometimes I cannot choose 
but cry. 
Seeing my late-sown flowers are 
hardly set ; 
O darkening color of the evening sky, 
Spare me the day a little longer 
yet. 



LIFE'S MYSTERY. 

Life's sadly solemn mystery. 
Hangs o'er me like a weight; 

The glorious longing to be free, 
The gloomy bars of fate. 

Alternately the good and ill. 
The light and dark, are strung; 

Fountains of love within my heart. 
And hate upon my tongue. 

Beneath my feet the unstable ground. 
Above my head the skies ; 

Immortal longings in my soul. 
And death before my eyes. 

No purely pure, and perfect good, 
No high, unhindered power; 

A beauteous promise in the bud, 
And mildew on the flower. 

The glad, green brightness of the 
spring; 

The summer, soft and warm ; 
The faded autumn's fluttering gold, 

The whirlwind and the storm. 

To find some sure interpreter 

My spirit vainly tries ; 
I only know that God is love, 

And know that love is wise. 



NO RING. 

What is it that doth spoil the fair 
adorning 
"With which her body she would 
dignify, 
When from her bed she rises in the 
morning 
To comb, and plait, and tie 
Her hair with ribbons, colored like 
the sky ? 

What is it that her pleasure discom- 
poses 
When she would sit and sing the 
sun away — [roses. 

Making her see dead roses in red 

And in the downfall gray 
A blight that seems the world to 
overlay ? 



What is it makes the trembling look 
of trouble 
About her tender mouth and eye- 
lids fair '? 
Ah me, ah me ! she feels her heart 
beat double, 
Without the mother's prayer, 
And her wild fears are more than 
she can bear. 

To the poor sightless lark new pow- 
ers are given, 
Xot only with a golden tongue to 
sing. 
But still to make her wavering way 
toward heaven 
With imdiscerning wing; 
But what to her doth her sick sorrow 
bring ? 

Her days she turns, and yet keeps 
overturning. 
And her flesh shrinks as if she felt 
the rod ; 



For 'gainst her will she thinks hard 

things concerning 
The everlasting God, 
And longs to be insensate like the 

clod. 

Sweet Heaven, be pitiful I rain down 

upon her [such : 

The saintly charities ordained for 

She was so poor in everything but 

honor, ' [much! 

And she loved much — loved 

Would, Lord, she had thy garment's 

hem to touch. 

Haply, it was the hungry heart with- 
in her. 
The woman's heart, denied its nat- 
lu-al right. 
That made of her the thing which 
men call sinner. 
Even in her own despite ; 
Lord, that her judges might receive 
their sight! 



Phoebe Gary. 



XEARER HOME. 

OXE sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er; 

I am nearer home to-day 
Than I ever have been before ; 

Xearer my father's house. 
Where the many mansions be ; 

Xearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the ciystal sea ; 

Xearer the boimd of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Xearer leaving the cross, 

Xearer gaining the crown I 

But lying darkly between. 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent unknown stream. 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 



Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh. if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink ; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust ; 

Let my spirit feel in death. 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the rock of a living faith I 



DEAD LOVE. 

We are face to face, and between us 
here 
Is the love we thought could never 
die; 
Why has it only lived a year ? 
Who has murdered it — vou or I ? 



124 



CARY. 



No matter who — the deed was done 
By one or both, and there it lies; 

The smile from the lip forever gone, 
And darkness over the beautiful 
eyes. 

Our love is dead, and our hope is 
wrecked ; 
So what does it profit to talk and 
rave, 
Whether it perished by my neglect, 
Or whether your cruelty dug its 
grave ! 

Why should you say that I am to 
blame. 
Or why should I charge the sin on 
you ? 
Our work is before us all the same. 
And the guilt of it lies between us 
two. 

W^e have praised our love for its 
beauty and grace ; 
Now we stand here, and hardly 
dare 
To turn the face-cloth back from the 
face, 
And see the thing that is hidden 
there. 

Yet look! ah, that heart has beat its 
last. 
And the beautiful life of our life is 
o'er, 
And when we have buried and left 
the past, 
We two, together, can walk no 
more. 

You might stretch yourself on the 
dead, and weep. 
And pray as the prophet prayed, 
in pain; 
But not like him could you break the 
sleep, 
And bring the soul to the clay again. 

Its head in my bosom I can lay. 
And shower my woe there, kiss on 
kiss. 
But there never was resurrection-day 
In the world for a love so dead as 
this. 



And, since we cannot lessen the sin 

By mourning over the deed we did. 
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to 
the chin. 
Ay, up till the death-blind eyes 
are hid ! 



THE LADY JAQUELINE. 

" False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 

I care not for the rest, 
The lover that knelt last night at my 
feet 
Was the bravest and the best. 
Let them perish all, for their power 
has waned. 
And their glory waxed dim; 
They were well enough while they 
lived and reigned, 
But never was one like him ! 
And never one from the past would 
I bring 
Again, and call him mine; — 
The King is dead, long live the 
King!" 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" In the old, old days, when life was 
new, 

And the world upon me smiled, 
A pretty, dainty lover 1 had. 

Whom I loved with the heart of a 
child. 
When the buried sun of yesterday 

Comes back from the shadows dim, 
Then may his love return to me. 

And the love I had for him ! 
But since to-day hath a better thing 

To give, I'll ne'er repine; — 
The King is dead, long live the 
King! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" And yet it almost makes me weep. 

Aye ! weep, and cry, alas ! 
When I think of one who lies asleep 

Down under the quiet grass. 
For he loved me well, and I loved 
again. 

And low in homag3 bent, 
And prayed for his long and prosper- 
ous reign. 

In our realm of sweet content. 



But not to the dead may the living 
cling, 

Nor kneel at an empty shrine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

"Once, caught by the sheen of stars 
and lace, 
I bowed for a single day, 
To a poor pretender, mean and base. 

Unfit for place or SMay. 
That must have been the work of a 
spell. 
For the foolish glamour fled. 
As the sceptre from his weak hand 
fell, [head; 

And the crown from his feeble 
But homage true at last I bring 

To this rightful lord of mine, — 
The King is dead, long live the 
King! " 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

"By the hand of one I held most 
dear. 

And called my liege, my own! 
I was set aside in a single year. 

And a new queen shares his throne. 
To him who is false, and him who is 
wed, 

Shall I give my fealty ? 
Nay, the dead one is not half so dead 

As the false one is to me! 
My faith to the faithful now I bring, 

The faithless I resign; — 
The King is dead, long live the 
King! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

"Yea, all my lovers and kings that 
were 

Are dead, and hid away. 
In the past, as in a sepulchre. 

Shut up till the judgment-day. 
False or fickle, or weak or wed, 

They are all alike to me; 
And mine eyes no more can be mis- 
led,— 

They have looked on loyalty ! 
Then bring me wine, and garlands 
bring 

For my king of the right divine; — 
The King is dead, long live the King 1^'' 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 



ARCHIE. 

Oil, to be back in the cool summer 

shadow 
Of that old maple-tree down in the 

meadow ; 
Watching the smiles that grew dearer 

and dearer, 
Listening to lips that grew nearer 

and nearer; 
Oh, to be back in the crimson-topped 

clover. 
Sitting again with my Archie, my 

lover ! 



Oh, for the time when I felt his ca- 
resses 

Smoothing away from my forehead 
the tresses; 

When up from my heart to my cheek 
went the blushes. 

As he said that my voice was as sweet 
as the thrush's; 

As he told me, my eyes were be- 
witchingly jetty. 

And I answered 't was only my love 
made them pretty ! 

Talk not of maiden reserve or of 

duty, 
Or hide from my vision such visions 

of beauty; 
Pulses above may beat calmly and 

even, — 
We have been fashioned for earth, 

and not heaven; 
Angels are perfect, I am but a 

woman ; 
Saints may be passionless, Archie is 

human. 

Say not that heaven hath tenderer 

blisses 
To her on whose brow drops the soft 

rain of kisses; 
Preach not the promise of priests or 

evangels. 
Love-crowned, who asks for the 

crown of the angels ? 
Yea, all that the wall of pure jasper 

encloses. 
Takes not the sweetness from sweet 

bridal roses! 



126 



CARY. 



Tell me, that when all this life shall 
be over, 

I shall still love him, and he be my 
lover; 

That 'mid flowers more fragrant than 
clover or heather 

My Archie and I shall be always to- 
gether. 

Loving eternally, met ne'er to sever. 

Then you may tell me of heaven for- 
ever. 



CONCL USIOJVS. 

I SAID, if I might go back again 
To the very hour and place of my 
birth ; 
Might have my life whatever I chose, 
And live it in any part of the 
earth ; 

Put perfect simshine into my sky, 
Banish the shadow of sorrow and 
doubt ; 

Have all my happiness multiplied, 
And all my suffering stricken out ; 

If I could have known in the years 
now gone, 
The best that a woman comes to 
know ; 
Could have had whatever will make 
her blest, 
Or whatever she thinks will make 
her so; 

Have found the highest and purest 

bliss 
That the bridal-wreath and ring 

enclose ; 
And gained the one out of all the 

world. 
That my heart as well as my reason 

chose; 

And if this had been, and I stood to- 
night 
By my children, lying asleep in 
their beds 
And could count in my prayers, for a 
rosary. 
The shining row of their golden 
heads; 



Yea ! I said, if a miracle such as this 

Could be wrought for me, at my 

bidding, still [is, 

I would choose to have my past as it 

And to let my future come as it 

will! 

I would not make the path I have 
trod 
More pleasant or even, more 
straight or wide; 
Nor change my course the breadth of 
a hair. 
This way or that way, to either 
side. 

My past is mine, and I take it all ; 
Its weakness, — its folly, if you 
please ; 
Nay, even my sins, if you come to 
that, 
May have been my helps, not hin- 
drances ! 

If I saved my body from the flames 
Because that once I had burned 
my hand ; 
Or kept myself from a greater sin 
By doing a less, — you will mider- 
stand ; 

It was better I suffered a little pain, 

Better I sinned for a little time. 
If the smarting warned me back from 
death. 
And the sting of sin withheld from 
crime. 

Who knows his strength, by trial, 
will know 
What strength must be set against 
a sin ; 
And how temptation is overcome 
He has learned, who has felt its 
power within ! 

And who knows how a life at the 
last may show ? 
Why, look at the moon from 
where we stand ! 
Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it 
shines, 
A luminous sphere, complete and 
crand ! 




OUR HOMESTEAD. 



Page 127. 



So let my past stand, just as it 
stands. 
And let me now, as I may, grow 
old; 
I am what I am, and my life for me 
Is the best. — or it had not been, I 
hold. 



ANSWERED. 

I THOUGHT to find some healing 
clime [shore. 

For her I loved; she found that 
That city, whose inhabitants 

Are sick and sorrowful no more. 

I asked for human love for her ; 

The Loving knew how best to still 
The infinite yearning of a heart, 

Which but infinity could fill. 

Such sweet communion had been 
ours 
I prayed that it might never end ; 
My prayer is more than answered; 
now 
I liave an angel for my friend. 

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe 

The troubled anguish of lier 

breast; [called. 

And, numbered with the loved and 
She entered on untroubled rest. 

Life was so fair a thing to her, 
I wept and pleaded for its stay ; 

My wisli was granted me, for lo ! 
She hath eternal life to-day. 



OUR HOMESTEAD. 

Our old brown homestead reared its 
walls 
From the way-side dust aloof, 
Where the apple-boughs could almost 
cast 
Their fruit upon its roof; 
And tlie cherry-tree so near it grew 

That when awake I've lain 
In tlie lonesome nights, I've heard 
the limbs 



As they creaked against the pane : 
And those orchard trees, oh those 
orchard trees! 

I've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 

The sweet-briar, under the window- 
sill, 
Which the early birds made glad. 
And the damask rose, by the garden- 
fence. 
Were all the flowers we had. 
I've looked at many a flower since 
then. 
Exotics rich and rare, 
That to other eyes were lovelier 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright, oh, those 
roses bright! [locks, 

I have twined them in my sister's 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 

We had a well, a deep old well. 

Where the spring Avas never dry. 
And the cool drops down from the 
mossy stones 
Were falling constantly; 
And there never Avas water half so 
sweet 
As the draught which filled my cup. 
Drawn up to the curb by the rude 
old sweep 
That my father's hand set up. 
And that deep old well, oh that deep 
old well! 
I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 

Our homestead had an ample hearth. 
Where at night Ave loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice Avas alAA'ays 
kind. 
And her smile Avas alAA'ays sweet; 
And there I've sat on my father's 
knee. 
And Avatched his thoughtful brow. 
With my childish hand in his raven 
hair, — 
That liair is silver now! 
But that broad heartli's light, oh, 

that broad hearth's light! 
And my father's look, and my moth- 
er's smile. 
They are in my heart to-night ! 



128 



CLARK. 



LuELLA Clark. 



IF YOU LOVE ME. 

If you love me, tell me not ; 
Let me read it in yom- thought ; 
Let me feel it in the way 
That you say me yea and nay ; 

Let me see it in your eye 
When you greet or pass me by ; 
Let me hear it in the tone 
Meant for me and me alone. 

If you love me, there will be 
Something only I shall see ; 
Meet or miss me, stay or go, 
If you love me, I shall know. 

Something in your tone will tell, 
" Dear, I love you, love you well." 



Something in your eyes will shine 
Fairer that they look in mine. 

In your mien some touch of grace. 
Some swift smile upon your face 
While you speak not, will betray 
What your lips could scarcely say. 

In your speech some silver word. 
Tuning into sweet accord 
All your bluntness will reveal. 
Unaware, the love you feel. 

If you love me, then, I pray, 
Tell me not, but, day by day. 
Let love silent on me rise, 
Like the sun in sunnner skies. 



Sarah D. Clark. 



THE SOLDANELLA. 

In the Avarm valley, i-ich in summer's 

wealth, 
Where tangled weed and shrub thin 

leaves unclose. 
Profuse and hardy in luxuriant 

health, 
The Soldanella grows. 

Common — if aught be common in 

God's care, — 
Its buds no beauty show to charm 

the eye. 
Nor graceful pencillings in colors rare. 
Enchant the passer-by. 

Yet, on yon distant heights of ice- 
pearled snow, 

Where mortals barely can a pathway 
trace. 

The Alpine blossom of the vale be- 
low 
Blooms in ethereal grace. 



Unlike, and yet the same, its petals 
blow 

Most like a crj'stal lily in the 
air; 

A dream of beauty 'mid the cheer- 
less snow, — 
A comfort in despair. 

How came it trembling in the icy 

gloom 
Where awful steppes and frowning 

glaciers rise 
So marvellous in presence and in 

bloom 
Even to angelic eyes ? 

While thus I mused, the fragile blos- 
som seemed 

Instinct with life, a spirit-form to 
take; 

Its fringed corolla with new radiance 
beamed 
A voice within it spake : — 



^p" 



CLEMMER. 



129 



■'Men man-el on these aiiy fields of 


Take, with the fragrance of my lat- 


space 


est breath. 


My tender form emergent to behold, 


This lesson to thy heart : 


A blossom of the skies — my name they 




trace 


" Go thou, to triumph in some glori- 


With stars and suns enrolled. 


ous strife. 




Through daring paths some noble 


" Though born and nurtiu-ed in the 


cause retrieve ; 


lowly vale, 


Seek, to the highest measure of thy 


Ignoble ease I was not doomed to 


life. 


bear; 


Thy pm-pose to achieve. 


I pined to scale the heights where 




eagles sail. 


'' Go tell the world, in Freedom's bat- 


And paled for Freedom's air! 


tle drawn, 




For one brief hour, its horoscope I 


"Not without toil my painful steps 


see; 


were bent 


Tell one by one who fall, ' Swift 


Through paths imperilled, and the 


comes the dawn 


icy sea, 


To herald victory.' " 


From Alp to Alp I gained my steep 




ascent. 


It ceased — the murmur died upon 


And hard- won victory ! 


mine ear. 




Straightway a threatening blast the 


"If these pale lips, so soon to close 


trmnpet gave ; 


in death. 


The next wind bore the seedling of 


One touch of hope or solace can im- 


the year 


part, 


On to its snowy grave ! 



Mary Clemmer. 



WORDS FOR PARTING. 

Oh, what shall I do, dear, 

In the coming years, I wonder, 
"When our paths, which lie so sweetly 
near, 

Shall lie so far asunder ? 
Oh, what shall I do, dear. 

Through all the sad to-morrows. 
When the sunny smile has ceased to 
cheer 

That smiles away my sorrows ? 

What shall I do, my friend. 
When you are gone forever ? 

My heart its eager need will send 
Through the years to find you 
never. 

And how will it be with you. 
In the weary world, I wonder, 



Will you love me with a love as true, 
When oiu" paths lie far asunder ? 

A sweeter, sadder thing 

My life, for having known you; 
Forever with my sacred kin, 

My soul's soul I must own you. 
Forever mine, my friend. 

From June to life's December; 
Not mine to have or hold. 

But to pray for and remember. 

The way is short, O friend. 

That reaches out before us ; 
God's tender heavens above us bend, 

His love is smiling o'er us; 
A little while is ours 

For sorrow or for laughter ; 
I'll lay the hand you love in yours 

On the shore of the Hereafter. 



NANTASKET. 

Fair is thy face, Nantasket, 

And fair tliy curving shores, — 
The peering spires of villages, 

The boatman's dipping oars. 
The lonely ledge of Minot, 

Where the watchman tends his 
light, 
And sets his perilous beacon, 

A star in the stormiest night. 

Over thy vast sea highway. 

The great ships slide from sight. 
And flocks of winged phantoms 

Flit by, like birds in flight. 
Over the toppling sea-wall 

The home-bound dories float, 
And I watch the patient fisherman 

Bend in his anchored boat. 

I am alone with Nature ; 

"With the glad September day. 
The leaning hills above me 

With golden-rod are gay, 
Across tlie fields of ether 

Flit butterflies at play. 
And cones of garnet sumach 

Glow down the country way. 

The autumn dandelion 

Along the roadside burns ; 
Down from the lichened boulders 

Quiver the plumed ferns; 
The cream-white silk of the milkweed 

Floats from its sea-green pod ; 
Out from the mossy rock-seams 

Flashes the golden-rod. 

The woodbine's scarlet banners 

Flaunt from their towers of stone; 
The wan, wild morning-glory 

Dies by the road alone ; 
By the hill-path to the seaside 

Wave myriad azure bells ; 
And over the grassy ramparts lean 

The milky immortelles. 

Hosts of gold-hearted daisies 

Nod by the wayside bars ; 
The tangled thicket of green is set 

With the aster's purple stars; 



Beside the brook the gentian 

Closes its fringed eyes. 
And waits the later glory 

Of October's yellow skies. 

Within the sea-washed meadow 

The wild grape climbs the wall, 
And from the o'er-ripe chestnuts 

The brown burs softly fall. 
I see the tall reeds shiver 

Beside the salt sea marge ; 
I see the sea-bird glimmer. 

Far out on airy barge. 

I hear in the groves of Hingham 

The friendly caw of the crow. 
Till I sit again in AVachusett's woods, 

In August's sumptuous glow. 
The tiny boom of the beetle 

Strikes the shining rocks below; 
The gauzy oar of the dragon-fly 

Is beating to and fro. 

As the lovely ghost of the thistle 

Goes sailing softly by ; 
Glad in its second summer 

Hums the awakened fly ; 
The cumulate cry of the cricket 

Pierces the amber noon ; 
In from the vast sea-spaces comes 

The clear call of the loon ; 
Over and through it all I hear 

Ocean's pervasive rune. 

Against the warm sea-beaches 

Bush the wavelets' eager lips; 
4-way o'er the sapphire reaches 

Move on the stately ships. 
Peace floats on all their pennons, 

Sailing silently the main. 
As if never human anguish, 

As if never human pain. 
Sought the healing draught of Lethe, 

Beyond the gleaming plain. 

Fair is the earth behind me. 

Vast is the sea before. 
Away through the misty dimness 

Glimmers a further shore. 
It is no realm enchanted, 

It cannot be more fair 
Than this nook of Nature's Kingdom. 

With its si)ell of space and air. 



C LOUGH. 



131 



WAITING. 

I WAIT, — 
Till from my veiled brows shall fall 
This bafflinc cloud, this wearying 

thrall,"' 
Which holds nie now from knowing 

all; 
Until my spirit-sight shall see 
Into all being's mystery. 
See what it really is to be ! 

I wait, — 
Willie rolling days in mockery fling 
Such cruel loss athwart my spring. 
And life flags on with broken wing ; 
Believing that a kindlier fate 



The patient soul will compensate 
For all it loses, ere too late. 

I wait ! 
For surely every scanty seed 
I plant in weakness and in need 
Will blossom in perfected deed ! 
Mine eyes shall see its affluent crown, 
Its fragrant fruitage, dropping down 
Care's lowly levels, bare and brown! 

I wait ! 
The summer of the soul is long. 
Its harvests yet shall round me throng 
In perfect pomp of sun and song. 
In stormless mornings yet to be 
I'll pluck from life's full-fruited tree 
The joy to-day denied to me. 



Arthur Hugh Clough. 



NO MORE. 

My wind has turned to bitter north, 

That was so soft a south before ; 
My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 

With foggy gloom is clouded o'er; 
My gay green leaves are yellow-black 

Upon the dark autumnal floor ; 
For love, departed once, comes back 

No more again, no more. 



to 



A roofless ruin lies my home, 

For winds to blow and rains 
pour ; 
One frosty night befell — and lo ! 

I find my summer days are o'er. 
The heart bereaved, of why and how 

Unknowing, knows that yet before 
It had what e'en to memory now 

Returns no more, no more. 



BECALMED AT EVE. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
Are scai-ce long leagues apart des- 
cried ; 



When fell the night, upsprung the 
breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they 
plied ; 
Nor dreamt but each the self-same 
seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year un- 
changed. 
Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul es- 
tranged. 

At dead of night their sails were 
filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 
Ah ! neither blamed, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn ap- 
peared. 

To veer, how vain! On, onward 
strain. 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness 
too! 
Through Minds and tides one com- 
pass guides — 
To that and your own selves be true. 



But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er that earUest parting 
past, 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they 
sought — 
One pui-pose hold where'er they 
fare; 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas. 
At last, at last unite them there ! 



NATUnA NATURANS. 

Beside me, — in the car, — she sat; 

She spake not, no, nor looked to 
me. 
From her to me, from me to her. 

What passed so subtly, stealthily ? 
As rose to rose, that by it blows. 

Its interchanged aroma flings ; 
Or wake to sound of one sweet note 

The virtues of disparted strings. 

Beside me, nought but tliis ? — but 
this. 

That influent; as within me dwelt 
Her life; mine too within her breast, 

Her brain, her eveiy limb, she felt. 
We sat; while o'er and in us, more 

And more, a power unknown pre- 
vailed. 
Inhaling and inhaled. — and still 

'Twas one, inhaling or inhaled. 

Beside me, nought but this; and 
passed — 

I passed ; and know not to this day 
If gold or jet her girlish hair — 

If black, or brown, or lucid-gray 
Her eye's young glance. The fickle 
chance 

That joined us yet may join again ; 
But I no face again could greet 

As hers, whose life was in me then. 

As unsuspecting mere a maid — 
As fresh in maidhood's bloomiest 
bloom — 

In casual second-class did e'er 
By casual youth her seat assume ; 



Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay, 
For once by balmiest airs betrayed 

Unto emotions too, too sweet 
To be unlingeringly gainsaid. 

Unowning then, confusing soon 

AVith dreamier dreams that o'er 
the glass 
Of shyly ripening woman-sense 

Reflected, scarce reflected, pass — 
A wife may be, a mother, she 

In Hymen's shrine recalls not now 
She first — in hour, ah, not profane ! — 

With me to Hymen learnt to bow. 

Ah no ! — yet owned we, fused in one, 

The power Avhich, e'en in stones 
and earths 
By blind elections felt, in forms 

Organic breeds to myriad births ; 
By lichen small on granite wall 

Ai^proved, its faintest, feeblest stir 
Slow-spreading, strengthening long, 
at last 

Vibrated full in me and her. 

In me and her sensation strange! 

The lily grew to pendent head ; 
To vernal airs the mossy bank 

Its sheeny primrose spangles spread ; 
In roof o'er roof of shade sun-proof 

Did cedar strong itself outclimb; 
And altitude of aloe proud 

Aspire in floral crown sublime ; 

Flashed flickering forth fantastic 
flies; 

Big bees their burly bodies swmig; 
Rooks roused with civic din the elms; 

And lark its wild reveille rimg; 
In Libyan dell the light gazelle. 

The leopard lithe in Indian glade, 
And dolphin, brightening tropic seas, 

In us were living, leapt and played. 

Their shells did slow Crustacea build ; 
Their gilded skins did snakes re- 
new ; 
While mightier spines for loftier kind 
Their types in amplest limbs out- 
grew; 
Yea, close comprest in human breast, 
What moss, and tree, and livelier 
thincr — 



Such sweet preluding sense, of old 

Led on in Eden's sinless place 
The hour when bodies human 
first 
Combined the primal, prime em- 
brace ; 
Such genial heat the blissful seat 
In man and woman owned un- 
blamed. 



When, naked both, its garden paths 
They walked unconscious, un- 
ashamed ; 



Ere, clouded yet in mightiest dawn, 

Above the horizon dusk and dun, 
One mountain crest with light had 
tipped 

That orb that is the spirit's sun; 
Ere dreamed young flowers in vernal 
showers 

Of fruit to rise the flower above. 
Or ever yet to young Desire 

Was told the mystic name of love. 







Hartley Coleridge. 



ADDRESS TO CERTAIN GOLD- 
FISHES. 

Restless forms of living light 
Quivering on your lucid wings, 
Cheating still the curious sight 
With a thousand shadowings ; 
Various as the tints of even. 
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, 
Reflected on your native streams 
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams ! 
Harmless warriors, clad in mail 
Of silver breastplate, golden scale; — 
Mail of Nature's own bestowing. 
With peaceful radiance mildly glow- 
ing- 
Fleet are ye as fleetest galley 
Or pirate rover sent from Sallee; 
Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 
iSport ye in your sea so narrow. 

Was the sun himself your sire ? 
Were ye born of vital fire ? 
Or of the shade of golden flowers, 
.Such as we fetch from Eastern bow- 
ers, 
To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
AVeaving many a mazy dance; 
Seeming still to grow in size 
When ye would elude our eyes — 
Pretty creatm-es ! we might deem 
Ye were happy as ye seem — 



As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
As light, as loving, and as lithe. 
As gladly earnest in your play. 
As when ye gleamed in far Cathay. 

And yet, since on this hapless earth 
There's small sincerity in mirth. 
And laughter oft is but an art 
To drown the outcry of the heart ; 
It may be that your ceaseless gambols. 
Your wheelings, darlings, divings, 

rambles. 
Your restless roving round and round, 
The circuit of your crystal bound — 
Is but the task of weary pain, 
An endless labor, dull and vain; 
And while your forms are gaily shin- 
ing. 
Your little lives are inly pining! 
Nay — but still I fain would dream 
That ye are ha^jpy as ye seem. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 

Youth, thou art fled, — but where 

are all the charms 
Which, though with thee they came, 

and passed with thee. 
Should leave a perfume and sweet 

memory 



134 



COLERIDGE. 



Of what they have been ? All thy 
boons and harms 

Have perished quite. Thy oft-re- 
vered alarms 

Forsake the fluttering echo. Smiles 
and tears 

Die on my cheek, or, petrified with 
years, 

Show the dull woe which no compas- 
sion warms, 

The mirth none shares. Yet could 
a wish, a thought, 

Unravel all the complex web of 
age, — 

Could all the characters that Time 
hath wrought 

Be clean effaced from my memorial 
page 

By one short word, the word I would 
not say ; — 

I thank my God because my hairs are 
gray. 



NOVEMBER. 

The mellow year is hasting to its 
close; 

The little birds have almost sung 
their last, 

Their small notes twitter in the 
dreary blast — 

That shrill-piped harbinger of early 
snows; — 

The patient beauty of the scentless 
rose. 

Oft with the morn's hoar crystal 
quaintly glassed. 

Hangs a pale mourner for the sum- 
mer past, 

And makes a little summer where it 
grows ; — 

In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief 
day 

The dusky waters shudder as they 
shine; 

The russet leaves obstruct the strag- 
gling way 

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks 
define, 



And the gaunt woods, in rag 

scant array. 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre 

ivy-twine. 



NO LIFE VAIN. 

Let me not deem that I was made 

in vain. 
Or that my being was an accident, 
Which fate, in working its sublime 

intent. 
Not wished to be, to hinder would 

not deign. 
Each drop uncounted in a storm of 

rain 
Hath its own mission, and is duly 

sent 
To its own leaf or blade, not idly 

spent 
'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless 

main. 
The very shadow of an insect's wing. 
For which the violet cared not while 

it stayed, 
Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing. 
Proved that the sun was shining by 

its shade : 
Then can a drop of the eternal spring. 
Shadow of living lights, in vain be 

made ? 



SONG. 



She is not fair to outward view, 

As many maidens be. 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on mo; 
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne'er reply: 

And yet 1 cease not to behold 
The lovelight in her eye. 

Her very frowns are fairer far 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 



COLERIDGE. 



185 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



[Passages from The Jiime of the Ancient 
Mariner.] 

THE SHIP BECALMED. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam 

flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea, 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 

down, 
" Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky. 
The bloody sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink; 
AV'ater, water, everywhere, 
Xor any drop to drink. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER REFRESHED 
BY SLEEP AND RAIN- 

SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven. 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 
That had so long remained, 

1 dreamt that they were filled with 

dew ; 
And when I awoke it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was 

cold. 
My gannents all were dank. 



Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my 

limbs: 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 



THE VOICES OF THE ANGELS. 

Akound, around, flew each sweet 

sound. 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
1 heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How they seemed to fill the sea and 

air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 



PENANCE OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
AND HIS REVERENT TEACHING. 

Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrenched 
With a woful agony. 
Which forced me to begin my tale : 
And then it left me free. 

Since then at an imcertain hour, 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 



I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that 

door! 
The wedding-guests are there: 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bridemaids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer! 

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath 

been 
Alone on a wide wide sea: 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk, 
With a goodly company ! 

To walk together to the kirk. 
And all together pray, 
While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving 

friends 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee,thou Wedding-Guest! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
AVhose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 



He w^ent like one that hath been 

stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 




[From ChrisiabeL] ^ 

BROKEN FltlEynSHlPS. 

Alas! they had been friends in 
youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison 

truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And life is thorny; and youth is 

vain; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
With Koland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother: 
They parted — ne'er to meet again! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from pain- 
ing— 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asun- 
der 
A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thun- 
der, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath 
been. 



[From The Three Graves.] 
BELL AND BROOK. 

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell. 
' Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 

Deep in a woody dell. 



[From Dejection.] 

A GJUEF without a pang, void, dark, 
and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned 

grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no 
relief. 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 
O lady! in this wan and heartless 
mood. 



COLERIDGE. 



To other thoughts by yonder throstle 

wooed, 
All this long eve, so balmy and se- 
rene. 
Have I been gazing on the western 

sky, 
And its pecular tint of yellow 

green : 
And still I gaze — and with how 

blank an eye! 
And those thin clouds above, in 

flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the 

stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them 

or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but 

always seen : 
Yon crescent moon as fixed as if it 

grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of 

blue ; 
I see them all so excellently fair, 
I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 

My genial spirits fail; 
And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from 
off my breast ? 
It were a vain endeavor, 
Though I should gaze forever 
On that green light that lingers in 

the west: 
I may not hope from outward forms 

to win 
The passion and the life, whose 
fountains are within. 

O Lady I we receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does nature live : 

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours 
her shroud ! 
And would we aught behold, of 
higher worth, 

Than that inanimate cold world al- 
lowed 

To the poor loveless, ever-anxious 
crowd. 
Ah I from the soul itself must issue 
forth, 

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
Enveloping the earth — 

And from the soul itself must there 
be sent 



A sweet and potent voice, of its 
own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and ele- 
ment ! 

O pure of heart! thou need'st not 
ask of me 

What this strong music in the soul 
may be ! 

\\Tiat, and wherein it doth exist, 

This light, this glory, this fair lumi- 
nous mist. 

This beautiful and beauty-making 
power. 
Joy, virtuous lady, — joy that 
ne'er was given. 

Save to the pure, and in their purest 
hour, 

Life, and life's effluence, cloud at 
once and shower 

Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power, 

YyTiich wedding Nature to us gives 
in dower, 
A new earth and new heaven, 

LTndreamt of by the sensual and the 
proud — 

Joy is the sweet voice, joy the lumi- 
nous cloud — 
We in ourselves rejoice! 

And thence flows all that cliarms or 
ear or sight. 
All melodies the echoes of that 
voice. 

All colors a suffusion from that light. 

There was a time when, though my 

path was rough, 
This joy within "me dallied with 

distress. 
And all misfortimes were but as the 

stuff 
Whence Fancy made me dreams of 

happiness : 
For hope grew round me, like the 

twining vine. 
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, 

seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to 

earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my 

mirth. 
But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends wliat nature gave me at my 

birth, 



138 



COLERIDGE. 




My shaping spirit of imagination. 
For not to tliink of what I needs 
must feel. 
But to be still and patient, all J 
can; 
And haply by abstruse research to 
steal 
From my own nature all the nat- 
ural man — 
This was my sole resource, my only 
plan: 
Till that which suits a part infects 

the whole. 
And now is almost grown the habit 
of my soul. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil 

around my mind, 
Reality's dark dream! 
I turn from you, and listen to the 

wind, 

Thou actor, perfect in all tragic 
sounds ! 
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy 
bold ! 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'Tis of the rushing of a host in 
rout. 
With groans of trampled men, with 
smarting wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and 

shudder A\ith the cold ! 
But hush! there is a pause of deepest 
silence! 
And all that noise, as of a rushing 
crowd. 
With groans, and tremulous shudder- 
ings — all is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds 
less deep and loud ! 
A tale of less affright, 
And tempered witli delight. 
As Otway's self had framed the ten- 
der lay, 
'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath 

lost her way : 
And now moans low in bitter grief 

and fear, 
And now screams loud, and hopes to 
make her mother hear. 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IX THE 
VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the 
morning-star 

In his steep course ? So long he 
seems to pause 

On thy bald awful head, O sovran 
Blanc! 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy 
base 

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most aw- 
ful form ! 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of 
pines, 

How silently! Around thee and above 

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 
black. 

An ebon mass : methinks thou pierc- 
est it. 

As with a wedge ! But when I look 
again. 

It is thine own calm home, thy crys- 
tal shrine, 

Thy habitation from eternity! 

dread and silent mount! I gazed 

upon thee. 

Till thou, still present to. the bodily 
sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought: en- 
tranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling 
melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listen- 
ing to it. 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending 
with my thought. 

Yea, with my life, and life's own se- 
cret joy : 

Till the dilating soul, enwrapt, 
transfused. 

Into the mighty vision passing — 
there 

As in her natural form, swelled vast 
to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive 

praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling 

tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! 

Awake, 




COLERIDGE. 



Voice of sweet song. Awake, my 

heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 

hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran 

of the vale ! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all 

the night, 
And visited all night by troops of 

stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when 

they sink: 
Companion of the morning-star at 

dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the 

dawn 
Co-herald : wake, oh, wake, and utter 

praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 

earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with 

rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents 
fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and 
utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you 
forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jag- 
ged rocks, 

For ever shattered and the same for 
ever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, 
and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the si- 
lence came,) 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have 
rest? 

Ye ice-falls I ye that from the 
mountain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope 
amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a 
mighty voice, 

And stopped at once amid their mad- 
dest plunge! 

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 



Who made you glorious as the gates 

of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who 

bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who. 

with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at 

your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of 

nations. 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, 

God! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams, with 

gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and 

soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles 

of snow. 
And in their perilous fall shall thun- 
der, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eter- 
nal frost! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the 
eagle's nest! 

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain 
storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 

Utter forth God. and fill the hills 
with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy 

sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, 

unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through 

the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil 

thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous moini- 

tain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile 

bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suf- 
fused with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory 

cloud. 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever 

rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the 

earth! 




189 



140 



COLERIDGE. 



Thou kingly spirit throned among 

the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth 

to Heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent 

sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising 

sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, 

praises God. 



LOVE, HOPE AND PATIENCE IN 
EDUCATION. 

O'er wayward childhood would'st 

thou hold firm rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy 

faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these 

must be thy graces. 
And in thine own heart let tliem first 

keep school, 



O part them never! If hope pros- 
trate lie, 
Love too will sink and die. 

But Love is subtle, and doth proof 
derive 

From her own life that Hope is yet 
alive; 

And bending o'er with soul-transfus- 
ing eyes, 

And the soft murmurs of the mother 
dove, 

Woos back the fleeting spirit and 
half -supplies; — 

Thus Love repays to Hope what 
Hope first gave to Love. 

Yet haply tliere will come a weary 
day 
When overtasked at length 

Botli Love and Hope beneath the 
load give way. 

Then with a statue's smile, a statue's 
strength, 

Stands the mute sister. Patience, 
nothing loth, 

And both si^pporting, does the work 
of both. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Yehse, a breeze, mid blossoms stray- 
ing. 
Where hope clung fading, like a 

bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Natiu-e, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young? — Ah, woful 

when! 
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and 

Then! 
This breathing house not built with 

hands, 
This body that does me grievous 

wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flashed along: — 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of 

yore. 
On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide! 
Nought cared this body for wind or 

weather 
When youth and I lived in't togetlier. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower- 
like; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree; 

O ! the joys, that came down sliower- 
like, 

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
Ere I was old. 

Ere I was old ? All, woful ere. 

Which tells me. Youth's no longer 
here ! 

Youth! for years so many and 

sweet, 
'Tis known, that thou and I were 

one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be. that thou art gone! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yettolled : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put 

on. 
To make believe, that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this altered size: 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
And tears take sunshine from thine 

eyes! 



COLERIDGE. 



141 



Life is but thought: so think I 

will 
That Youth and I are house-mates 

still. 



Dew-drops are the gems of morning 
But tlie tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve, 

When we are old : 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigli-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome 

while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



COMPLAINT AND REPROOF. 

How seldom, friend! a good great 

man inherits 
Honor or wealth, with all his worth 

and pains ! 
It soimds like stories from the land 

of spirits. 
If any man obtain that which he 

merits, 
Or any merit that which he obtains. 

For shame, dear friend! renounce 
tliis canting strain! 

WTiat wouldst thou have a good 
great man obtain ? 

Place, titles, salary — a gilded chain — 

Or throne of corses which his sword 
hatli slain ? — 

Greatness and goodness are not 
means, but ends ! 

Hatla he not always treasures, always 
friends. 

The good great man? — three treas- 
ures, love and light, 

And calm thoughts, regular as in- 
fant's breath; — 

And three firm friends, more sure 
than day and night — 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel 
Death. 



LOVE. 

Am. thoughts, all passions, all de- 
lights, 
Whatever stirs tills mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again tliat happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay. 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the 

scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
1 sang an old and moving story — 
An otd rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah I 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interijreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest 

grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face! 



142 



COLLIER. 



But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely 

knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain- 
woods, 
Nor rested day nor night: 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome 

shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable knight ! 

And that luiknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than 
death 
The lady of the land ; — 

And how she wept, and clasped his 

knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — but when I reached 

That tenderest strain of all the ditty 

My faltering voice and pausing harp 

Disturbed her soul with pity ! 



All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle 

hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
iSubdued and cherished long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin 

shame; 
And like the murmvir of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped 

aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked 
up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was 

calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 



Thomas Stephens Collier. 



OFF LABRADOn. 

The storm-wind moans through 

branches bare; 

The snow flies wildly through the air ; 

The mad waves roar, as fierce and 

high [sky. 

Thev toss their crests against the 



All dark and desolate lies the sand 
Along the wastes of a barren 
land; 
And rushing on, with sheets flung 

free, 
A ship sails down from the north- 
ern sea. 



^ 



COLLIER. 



148 



With lips pressed hard the helms- 
man stands. 
Grasping the spokes with freezing 
hands, 
While white the reef lies in his path, 
Swept by an ocean full of wrath. 

The surf-roar in the blast is lost. 
The foam-flakes by the wild wind tost 
High up in air, no warning show, 
Hid by the driving mass of snow. 

With sudden bound and sullen grate. 
The brave ship rushes to her fate, 

And splintered deck and broken 
mast 

Make homage to the roaring blast. 

Amid the waves, float riven plank. 
And rope and sail with moisture dank ; 
And faces gleaming stern and 

white 
Shine dimly in the storm-filled 
night. 

By some bright river far away, 
Fond hearts are ■wondering where 
they stay 
Who sleep along the wave-washed 

shore 
And stormy reefs of Labrador. 



AN OCTOBER PICTURE. 

The purple grapes hang ready for the 
kiss 
Of red lips sweeter than their wine ; 
And 'mid the turning leaves they 
soon will miss. 
The crimson apples shine. 
Lazily through the soft and sunlit air 
The great hawks fly, and give no 
heed 
To the sweet songsters, that toward 
the fair. 
Far lands of summer speed. 

Along the hills wild asters bend to 
greet 
The roadside' s wealth of golden-rod ; 
And by the fences the bright su- 
machs meet 
The morning light of God. 



Slowly the shadows of the clouds 
drift o'er 
The hillsides, clad in opal haze. 
Where gorgeous butterflies seek the 
rich store 
Of flower-sprent summer days. 

All clad in dusted gold, the tall elms 
stand 
Just in the edges of the wood ; 
And near, the chestnut sentinels the 
land. 
And shows its russet hood. 

The maple flaunts its scarlet banners 
where 
The marsh lies clad in shining mist ; 
The mountain oak shows, in the 
clear, bright air. 
Its crown of amethyst. 

Where, like a silver line, the spark- 
ling stream 
Flows murmuring through the 
meadows brown. 
Amid the radiance, seeming a sad 
dream, 
A sailless boat floats down. 



COMPLETE. 

LiKK morning blooms that meet the 

sun 
With all the fragrant freshness won 
From night's repose, and kiss of dew 
Which the bright radiance glistens 

through, 
Such is the sweetness of thy lips, 
AVhere love its sacred tribute sips : 
Such is the glory of thine eyes, 
Fiich with the soul's unsaid replies. 

The snow that crowns the mountain 
height, [white; 

Through countless years of gleaming 
The creamy blooms of orchard trees. 
Full of the melody of bees ; 
The cool, fresh sweetness of the sea; 
All have a charm possessed by thee : 
But each of these has one alone. 
Whilst thou canst call them all thine 
own. 



COLLINS. 



Mortimer Collins. 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 

Xo; I shall pass into the Morning 
Land 

As now from sleep into the life of 
morn ; 

Live the new life of the new world, 
unshorn 
Of the swift brain, the executing 
hand ; 

See the dense darkness suddenly 
withdrawn, 

As when Orion's sightless eyes dis- 
cerned the dawn. 



I shall behold it; I shall see the 
utter 

Glory of sunrise heretofore un- 
seen, 

Freshening the woodland ways with 
brighter green, 
And calling into life all wings that 
flutter. 

All throats of music and all eyes of 
light. 

And driving o'er the verge the in- 
tolerable night. 



O virgin world ! O marvellous far 

days! 
No more with dreams of grief doth 

love grow bitter, [glitter 

Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to 

In happy eyes. Decay alone decays : 

A moment — death's dull sleep is 

o'er; and we 
Drink the immortal morning air 

Earine. 



LAST VERSES. 

I HAVE been sitting alone 

All day while the clouds went by, 

While moved the strength of the 
seas. 
While a wind with a will of his own, 

A poet out of the sky. 

Smote the green harp of the trees. 

Alone, yet not alone, 

For I felt, as the gay wind whirled. 

As the cloudy sky grew clear. 
The touch of our Father half-known, 

Who dwells at the heart of the world, 

Yet who is always here. 



William Collins. 



ODE TO SIMPLICITY. 

O THOU, by Nature taught 
To breathe" her genuine thought. 
In numbers warmly pure, and sweet- 
ly strong; 
Wlio first, on mountains wild. 
In Fancy, loveliest child. 
Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the 
powers of song! 

Thou, who, with hermit heart, 
Disdain'st the wealth of art. 
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and 
trailing pall; 



But com'st a decent maid, 
In Attic robe arrayed, 
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee 
I call! 



O sister meek of Truth, 
To my admiring youth. 
Thy sober aid and native charms in- 
fuse I 
The flowers that sweetest breathe, 
Though Beauty culled the wreath. 
Still ask thy hand to range their or- 
dered hues. 



COLLINS. 



145 



Though taste, though genius, bless. 
To some divine excess, 
Faints the cold work till thou inspire 
the whole ; 
What each, wiiat all supply, 
May court, may charm, our eye; 
Thou, only thou, canst raise the 
meeting soul ! 

Of these let others ask, 

To aid some mighty task, 
I only seek to find thy temperate vale ; 

Where oft my reed might sound 

To maids and shepherds round. 
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn 
my tale. 



ODE TO THE BRAVE. 

HoAV sleep the brave, who sink to 

rest, 
By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold , 
Eeturns to deck their hallowed mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their 

clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! 



ON TRUE AND FALSE TASTE IN 
MUSIC. 

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish 
tongue, 

The strain insipid, and the thought 
unknown ; 

From truth and nature form the mi- 
erring test ; 

Be what is'manly, chaste, and good 
the best ! 

'Tis not to ape the songsters of the 
groves, 

Through all the quivers of their wan- 
ton loves; 



'Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or war- 
bled shake, 
The heart can strengthen, or the soul 

awake ! 
But where the force of energy is 

found. 
When the sense rises on the wings of 

sound ; 
When reason, with the charms of 

music twined. 
Through the enraptured ear informs 

the mind ; 
Bids generous love or soft compassion 

glow. 
And forms a tuneful Paradise below ! 



THE PASSIONS. 
AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was 

young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell. 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were 

fired. 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of 

sound : 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forcefvd art, 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive 

power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 
Amid the chords bewildered laid. 

And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had 
made. 

Next Anger rushed ; his eyes on fire. 
In lightnings owned his secret 
stings ; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
And swept with hurried hands the 
strings. 



With woful measures wan Despair 
Low, sullen sounds his grief be- 
guiled ; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas 
wild ! 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure"? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at dis- 
tance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain pro- 
long; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the 
vale. 
She called on Echo still, through all 
the song; 
And where her sweetest theme she 

chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard 
at every close. 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and 

waved her golden hair. 
And longer had she smig; — but with 
a frown. 
Revenge impatient rose; 
He threw his blood-stained sword, in 
thunder, down; 
And with a withering look. 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
AVere ne'er prophetic sounds so full 
of woe ! 
And, ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum, with furious 
heat; 
.\nd though sometimes, each dreary 
pause between. 
Dejected Pity, at his side. 
Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered 
mien, 
While each strained ball of sight 
seemed bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought 
were fixed; 
Sad proof of thy distressful state; 

Of differing themes the veering song 
was mixed ; 

And now it courted Love, now rav- 
ing called on Hate. 



With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more 

sweet. 
Poured through the mellow horn her 
pensive soul : 
And, dashing soft from rocks 

around. 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound; 
Through glades and glooms the min- 
gled measures stole. 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with 
fond delay. 
Round an holy calm diffusing, 
Love of Peace. and lonely musing. 
In hollow murmiirs died away. 

ButO! how altered was its spright- 

lier tone. 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of 
healthiest hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning 
dew. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and 
thicket rung. 
The hunter's call, to Faun and 
Dryad known ! 
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their 
chaste-eyed Queen, 
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys 
green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 
And Sport leapt up, and seized his 
beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: 
He, with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand 
addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening 
viol. 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he 
loved the best ; . 
They would have thought who heard 
the strain 
They saw, in Terape's vale, her 

native maids. 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
Wliile, as his flying fingers kissed the 
strings, 






COLLINS. 



147 



Love framed with Mirth a gay fan- 
tastic round ; 

Loose were her tresses seen, her 
zone unbound ; 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if lie would the channiug air 
repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy 
wings. 

O Music! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! 
Why, goddess! why, to us denied. 
Lay' St thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding 

power, 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared, 
Can well recall what then it heard; 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art '? 
Arise, as in that elder time. 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 
Thy wonders, in that godlike age. 
Fill thy recording sister's page — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
Thy humblest reed could more pre- 
vail. 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard 

age; 
E'en all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
O bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece: 
Keturn in all thy simple state! 
( 'onfirm the tales her sons relate ! 



ODE TO EVENING. 

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral 

song. 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy 
modest ear. 
Like thy own brawling springs. 
Thy springs and dying gales; 

O nymph reserved, while now the 

bright-haired sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
skirts, 
With brede ethereal wove 
O'erhang his wavy bed: 



Now air is hushed, save where the 

weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on 
leathern wing; 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight 

path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless 
hum : 
Now teach me, maid composed. 
To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy 

darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness 
suit; 
As, musing slow, I hail 
Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star, arising 
shows 

His paly circlet, — at his warning lamp 
The fragrant Hours, and elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a nymph who wreathes 

her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and. 
lovelier still. 
The pensive Pleasiu-es sweet. 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me ro've some wild and 

heathy scene; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary 
dells. 
Whose walls more awful nod 
By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driv- 
ing rain 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the 
hut, 
That, from the mountain's side. 
Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discov- 
ered spires; 
And hears their simple bell, and 
marks o'er all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 



148 



COLLINS. 



While Spring shall pour his showers 

as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, 
meekest Eve! 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap 

with leaves; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troub- 
lous air. 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, 
smiling Peace, 
Thy gentlest Influence own. 
And love thy favorite name ! 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 

[The scene is supposed to lie on the 
Thames, near RichiiKnid.] 

In yonder grave a Druid lies. 
Where slowly v/inds the stealing 
wave ; 
The year's best sweets shall duteous 
rise 
To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 

His airy harp shall now be laid. 
That he, whose heart in sorrow 
bleeds. 
May love through life the soothing 
shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger 
here, 
And while its sounds at distance 
swell. 
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 

To hear the woodland pilgrim's 
knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the 
shore 
When Thames in summer wreaths 
is drest, 



And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 

And oft, as Ease and Health retire 

To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
The friend shall view yon whitening 
spire 
And 'mid the varied landscape 
weep. 

But thou, who own'st that earthly 
bed. 
Ah! what will every dirge avail; 
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, 
That mourn beneath the gliding 
sail ? 

Yet lives there one whose heedless 
eye 
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glim- 
mering near ? 
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die. 
And Joy desert the blooming year. 

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen 
tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now at- 
tend, 
Now waft me from the green hill's 
side, 
Whose cold turf hides the biu'ied 
friend ! 

And see, the fairy valleys fade; 

Dun night has veiled the solemn 
view ! 
Yet once again, dear parted shade. 

Meek Nature's child, again adieu! 

The genial meads, assigned to bless 
Thy life, shall mourn thy early 
doom ; 
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall 
dress, 
With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 

Long, long, thy stone and pointed 

clay 

Shall meltthe musing Briton's eyes : 

"O vales and wild woods!"' shall he 

say, 

' ' In yonder grave your Druid lies I ' ' 



COOK. 



149 



Eliza Cook. 



SONG OF 'THE HE MP SEED. 

Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring 
day; 
Wide and far be the hempseed sown: 
And bravely I'll stand on the autumn 
land, 
When the rains have dropped and 
the winds have blown 
Man shall carefully gather me up; 
His hand shall rule and my form 
shall change; 
Not as a mate for the purple of state, 
Nor into aught that is "rich and 
strange." 
But 1 will come forth all woven and 
spun, 
With my fine threads curled in ser- 
pent length ; 
And the fire-wrought chain and the 
lion's thick mane 
Shall be rivalled by me in mighty 
strength. 
I have many a place in the busy world. 
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and 

Joy; 

I carry the freeman's flag unfurled; 
I am linked to childhood's darling 

toy. 
Then scatter me wide, and hackle me 

well ; 
For a varied tale can the hempseed 

tell. 

Bravely I swing in the anchor-ring, 
Where the foot of the proud man 
cometh not; 
WTiere the dolphin leaps and the sea- 
weed creeps 
O'er the rifted sand and the coral 
grot. 
Down, down below I merrily go 
When the huge ship takes her rock- 
ing rest : 
The waters may chafe, but she dwell- 
eth as safe 
As the young bird in its woodland 
nest. 
I wreathe the spars of that same fair 
ship, [about: 

Where the gallant sea-hearts cling 



Springing aloft with a song on the lip, 
Putting their faith in the cordage 

stout, 
I am true when the blast sways the 

giant mast, 
Straining and stretched in a nor'- 

west gale, 
I abide with the bark, in the day and 

the dark, 
Lashing the liammock and reefing 

the sail. 
f)h ! the billows and I right fairly 

cope, 
And the wild tide is stemmed by the 

cable rope. 

The sunshine falls on a new-made 
grave, — 
The funeral train is long and sad; 
The poor man has come to the hap- 
piest home 
And easiest pillow he ever had. 
I shall be there to lower him down 

Gently into his narrow bed ; 
I shall be there, the work to share. 
To guard his feet, and cradle his 
head. 

Oh ! the hempseed cometh in doleful 

shape. 
With the mourner's cloak and sable 

crape. 

Harvest shall spread with its glitter- 
ing Avheat, 
The barn shall be opened, the stack 
shall be piled ; 
Ye shall see the ripe grain shining 
out from the wain. 
And the berry-stained arms of the 
gleaner-child. 
Heap on, heap on, till the wagon- 
ribs creak, 
Let the sheaves go towering to the 
sky; 
Up with the shock till the broad 
wheels rock. 
Fear not to carry the rich freight 
high; 
For I will infold the tottermg gold, 
I will fetter the rolling load; 



Not an ear shall escape my binding 
hold, 
On the furrowed field or jolting 
road. 

Oh! the hempseed hath a fair place 
to fill, 

With the harvest band on the corn- 
crowned hill. 



AFTER A MOTHER'S DEATH. 

TiiEY told me in my earlier years, 
Life was a dark and tangled web; * 

A gloomy sea of bitter tears, 
Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb. 

But such was vainly taught and said. 
My laugh rang out with joyous tone ; 

The woof possessed one brilliant 
thread 
Of rainbow colors, all my own. 

I boasted — till a mother's grave 
Was heaped and sodded — then I 
foimd 

The sunshine stricken from the wave. 
And all the golden thread unwound. 

Preach on who will — say "Life is 
sad," 
I'll not refute as once I did; 
You'll find the eye that beamed so 
glad, 
Will hide a tear beneath its lid. 

Preach on of woe; the time liatli been 
I'd praise the world with shadeless 
brow : 

The dream is broken — I have seen 
A mother die: — I'm silent now. 



GANGING TO AND GANGING FRAE. 

Nae star was glintin out aboon, 
The cluds were dark and hid the 

moon ; 
The whistling gale was in my teeth. 
And round me was the deep snaw 

wreath ; 



But on I went the dreary mile. 

And simg right cantie a' the while 

I gae my plaid a closer fauld ; 

My hand was warm, my heart was 

bauld, 
I didna heed the storm and cauld, 

While ganging to my Katie. 

But when I trod the same way back. 
It seemed a sad and waef u' track ; 
The brae and glen were lone and lang; 
I didna sing my cantie sang; 
I felt how sharp the sleet did fa'. 
And couldna face the wind at a'. 
Oh, sic a change! how could it be ? 
I ken fu' well, and sae may ye — 
The sunshine had been gloom to nie 
While ganging./V<((' my Katie. 



MY OLD STRAW HAT. 

Fareweli^, old friend, — we part at 

last; 
Fruits, flowers, and summer, all are 

past. 
And when the beech-leaves bid adieu. 
My old straw hat must vanish too. 
We've been together many an hour, 
In grassy dell and garden bower; 
And plait and riband, scorched and 

torn. 
Proclaim how Avell thou hast been 

worn. 
We've had a time, gay, bright, and 

long ; 
So let me "sing a grateful song. — 
And if one bay-leaf falls to me, 
I'll stick it firm and fast in thee, 

My old straw hat. 

Thy flapping shade and flying strings 
Are worth a thousand close-tied 

things. 
I love thy easy-fitting crown. 
Thrust lightly back, or slouching 

down. 
I cannot brook a muffled ear, 
Wlien lark and blackbird whistle 

near ; 
And dearly like to meet and seek 
The fresh wind with unguarded 

cheek. 



COOKE. 



151 



Tossed in a tree, thou "It bear no 

harm ; 
Flung on the moss, thou "It lose no 

charm ; 
Like many a real friend on earth, 
Rough usage only proves thy worth, 
JNly old straw hat. 

Farewell, old friend, thy work is done ; 
The misty clouds shut out the sun; 
The grapes are plucked, the hops are 

- off. 
The woods are stark, and I must doff 
My old straw hat — but "bide a 

wee," 
Fair skies we've seen, yet we may see 
Skies full as fair as those of yore, 
And then we'll wander forth once 

more. 
Farewell, till drooping bluebells blow. 
And violets stud the warm hedgerow ; 
Farewell, till daisies deck the plain — 
Farewell, till spring days come again — 
My old straw hat. 



SONG OF THE UGLY MAIDRX. 

Oh ! the world gives little of love or 
light. 

Though my spirit pants for much ; 
For 1 have no beauty for the sight, 

No riches for the touch. 
1 hear men sing o'er the flowing cup 

Of woman's magic spell; 
And vows of zeal they offer up, 

And eloquent tales they tell. 
They bravely swear to guard the fair 

With strong protecting arms ; 



But will they worship woman's worth 

Unblent with woman's charms? 
No! ah, no! 'tis little they prize 
Crook-backed forms and rayless eyes. 

Oh! 'tis a saddening thing to be 

A poor and ugly one; 
In the sand Time puts in his glass 
for me. 

Few golden atoms run. 
For my drawn lids bear no shadowing 
fringe ; 

My locks are thin and dry; 
My teeth wear not the rich pearl tinge, 

Nor my lips the henna dye. 
I know full well I have nought of 
grace 

That maketli woman ''divine;" 
The wooer's praise and doting gaze 

Have never yet been mine. 
Where'er I go all eyes will shun 
The loveless mien of the ugly one. 

Would that I had passed away 

Ere I knew that I was born ; 
For I stand in the blessed light of day 

Like a weed among the corn, — 
The black rock in the wide blue sea, — 

The snake in the jungle green: 
Oh! who will stay in the fearful way 

Where such ugly things are seen? 
Yet mine is the fate of lonelier state 

Than that of the snake or rock ; 
For those who behold me in their 
path 

Not only shun, but mock. 
O Ugliness! thy desolate pain 
Had served to set the stamp on ("ain! 



Philip Pendleton Cooke. 



FLORENCE VANE. 



I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane: 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again; 
I renew, in my fond vision. 

My heart's dear pain — 
My hopes, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 



The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 



152 



COOKE. 



Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 
* Florence Vane. 

But, fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod luider — 

Alas, the day ! 



And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep ; 
The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane! 



Rose Terry Cooke. 



THE ICONOCLAST. 

A THOUSAND years shall come and 
go, 
A thousand years of night and day; 
And man, through all their changing 
show. 
His tragic drama still shall play. 

Ruled by some fond ideal's power. 

Cheated by passion or despair, 
Still shall he waste life's trembling 
hour. 
In worship vain, and useless 
prayer. 

Ah! where are they who rose in 
might, 
Who tired the temple and the 
shrine. 
And hurled, through earth's chaotic 
night. 
The helpless gods it deemed di- 
vine? 

Cease, longing soid, thy vain desire! 

What idol, in its stainless prime, 
But falls, untouched of axe or tire. 

Before the steady eyes of Time ? 

He looks, and lo! our altars fall, 
The shrine reveals its gilded clay, 

With decent hands we spread the 
pall. 
And cold, with M'isdom, glide away. 



O, where were courage, faith, and 
truth. 
If man went wandering all his day 
In golden clouds of love and youth. 
Nor knew that both his steps be- 
tray ? 

Come, Time, while here we sit and 
wait. 
Be faithful, spoiler, to thy trust! 
No death can further desolate 
The soul that knows its god was 
dust. 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

Darlings of the forest! 
Blossoming, alone. 
When Earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone — 
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your 
tender buds have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 
Like the morning sky. 
Or. more pale and saintly, 
W^ rapped in leaves ye lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's sim- 
plicity. 

There the wild wood-robin, 
Hymns your solitude ; 



COOLBBITH. 



153 



And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but 
dare not be more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 
Out of air and dew — 
Starlight unimpassioned, 
Dawn's most tender hue, 
And scented by the woods that gath- 
ered sweets for you ? 

Fairest and most lonely, 
From the woi'ld apart ; 
Made for beauty only. 
Veiled from Nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as 
makes the dream of Art! 

Were not mortal sorrow 
An immortal shade. 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
And live in the dear woods where my 
lost childhood played. 



THEN. 

I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour, 
That old-time princes asked in vain. 
And pined for. in their useless power, 
Or died of passion's eager pain. 



1 give thee love as God gives light, 
Aside from merit, or from prayer. 
Rejoicing in its own delight. 
And freer than the lavish air. 



I give thee prayers, like jewels strung 
On golden threads of hope and f^ar; 
And tenderer thoughts than ever 

hung 
In a sad angel's pitying tear. 

As earth pours freely to the sea 
Her thousand streams of wealth un- 
told, 
So flows my silent life to thee, 
Glad that its very sands are gold. 

What care I for thy carelessness ? 
I give from depths that overflow. 
Regardless that their power to bless 
Tliy spirit cannot sound or know. 

Far lingering on a distant dawn 

My triumph shines, more sweet than 
late; 

When from these mortal mists with- 
drawn, 

Thy heart shall know me — I can 
wait. 



INA D. COOLBRITH. 



IJV BLOSSOM TIME. 

It's O my heart, my heart, 
To be out in the sun and sing! 

To sing and shout in the fields .about, 
In the balm and the blossoming. 

Sing loud, O bird in the tree; 

O bird, sing loud in the sky. 
And honey-bees, blacken the clover 
bed — 

There are none of you glad as I. 

The leaves laugh low in the wind. 
Laugh low, with the wind at play ; 



And the odorous call of the flowers all 
Entices my soul away! 

For oh, but the world is fair, is fair — 
And oh, but the world is sweet! 

I will out in the gold of the blossom- 
ing mould. 
And sit at the Master's feet. 

And the love my heart would speak 
I will fold in the lily's rim. 

That the lips of the blossoms, more 
pure and meek, 
May offer it up to Him. 



COTTON. 



Then sing in the hedgerow green, O 
thrusli, 
O skylark, sing in the blue: 
Sing loud, sing clear, that the King 
may hear, 
And my soul shall sing with you! 



THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 

So fair the sun rose yestermorn, 
The mountain cliffs adorning; 

The golden tassels of the corn 
Danced in the breath of morning; 

The cool, clear stream that runs be- 
fore. 
Such happy words was saying. 



And in the open cottage door 
My pretty babe was playing. 

Aslant the sill a sunbeam lay: 
I laughed in careless pleasure. 

To see his little hand essay 
To grasp the shining treasure. 

To-day no shafts of golden flame 

Across the sill are lying; 
To-day I call my baby's name. 

And hear no lisped replying; 
To-day — ah, baby mine, to-day - 

God holds thee in his keeping! 
And yet I weep, as one pale ray 

Breaks in upon thy sleeping — 
I weep to see its shining bands 

Reach, with a fond endeavor. 
To where the little restless hands 

Are crossed in rest forever! 



Charles Cotton. 



[From Retirement .'\ 
JN THE QUIET OF NATURE. 

Farewell, thou busy world, and 
may 
We never meet again ; 
Here I can eat, and sleep, and 
pray, [day. 

And do more good in one short 
Than he who his whole age out- 
wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres, 
Where nought but vanity and vice 
appears. 

Good God ! how sweet are all things 
here ! 
How beautifid the fields appear! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what luianimity! 
How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

Dear solitude, the soul's best 
friend, 
That man acquainted with himself 
dost make. 



And all his Maker's wonders to in- 
tend. 
With thee I here converse at 

will, 
And would be glad to do so still. 
For it is thou alone that keep'st the 
soul awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 

Is it, alone 
To read, and meditate, and write. 
By none offended, and offending 
none! 
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's 

own ease; 
And, pleasing a man's self, none 
other to displease. 



CON TEN TA TI ON. 

I CAN go nowhere but I meet 
With malcontents and nnUineers, 

As if in life was nothing sweet, 
And we must blessings reap In 
teai's. 



Titles and wealth are fortune's toils, 

Wherewith the vain themselves 

ensnare : 

The great are proud of borrowed 

spoils, 

The miser's plenty breeds his care. 

The drudge who would all get, all 
save, 
Like a brute beast, both feeds and 
lies; 
Prone to the earth, he digs his 
grave, 
And in the very labor dies. 

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf 

Does only death and danger breed; 
Whilst one rich worldling starves 
himself 
With what would thousand others 
feed. 

Nor is he happier than these, 
Who, in a moderate estate. 

Where he might safely live at ease, 
Has lusts that are immoderate. 

Nor is he happy who is trim, 
Tricked up in favors of the fair, 

Mirrors, with every breath made 

dim, [snare. 

Birds, caught in every wanton 

Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss. 
Does oftener far than serve, en- 
slave; 

And with the magic of a kiss [save. 
Destroys whom she was made to 



There are no ills but what we make 
By giving shapes and names to 
things, — 

Which is the dangerous mistake 
That causes all our sufferings. 

We call that sickness which is 
health. 

That persecution which is grace. 
That poverty which is true wealth. 

And that dishonor which is praise. 

Alas ! our time is here so short 
That in what state soe'er 't is 
spent. 

Of joy or woe, does not import. 
Provided it be innocent. 

But we may make it pleasant too. 
If we will take our measures right, 

And not what heaven has done undo 
By an unruly appetite. 

The world is full of beaten roads, 
But yet so slippery withal, 

That where one walks secure, 't is 
odds 
A hundred and a hundred fall. 

Untrodden paths are then the best. 
Where the frequented are unsure ; 

And he comes soonest to his rest 
Whose journey has been most se- 
cure. 

It is content alone that makes 
Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; 

And who buys sorrow cheapest takes 
An ill commodity too dear. 



Abraham 

OF MYSELF. 

This only grant me, that my means 

may lie [liigh. 

Too low for envy, for contempt too 

Some honor I would have. 
Not from great deeds, but good alone; 
The unknown are better than ill 
known : 
Rumor can ope the grave. 



Cowley. 

Acquaintance I would have, but 

when't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, 

of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain 

the light. 
And sleep as undisturbed as death, 

the night. 
My house a cottage more 



156 



COWLEY. 



Than palace ; and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and 

pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine 

field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading 
space ; 

For he that runs it well twice runs 
his race. 
And in tliis true delight, 

These unbought sports, this happy 
state, 

I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; 
But boldly say each night. 

To-morrow let my sun his beams dis- 
play, 

Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived 
to-day. 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 

Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts 

the air. 

How it outruns thy following eye ! 

Use all persuasions now, and try 

If thou canst call it back or stay it 

there, 

That way it went; but thou shalt 

find 
iSTo track is left behind. 

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond arch- 
er, thou! 
Of all the time thou'st shot 

away, 
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday. 
And it shall be too hard a task to do. 
Beside repentance, what canst 

find 
That it hath left behind ? 

But his past life, Avho without grief 
can see. 
Who never thinks his end too 
near. 



But says to Fame, Thou art 
mine heir, — 
That man extends life's natural 
brevity : 
This is, this is the only way 
To outlive Nestor in a day. 



I 



[From Beaso7i.] 
REASON AN AID TO REVELATION. 

Though Reason cannot through 
Faith's mysteries see, 
It sees that there and ^uch there be, 
Leads to heaven's door, and then 
does humbly keep. 
And then through chinks and key- 
holes peep. 
Though it, like Moses, by a sad com- 
mand 
Must not come into the Holy Land, 
Yet thither it infallibly does guide, 
And from afar 'tis all descried. 



[From Friendship in Absence.] 

DISTANCE NO BARRIER TO THE 
SOUL. 

When chance or cruel business parts 

us two. 
What do our souls, I wonder, do ? 
Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, 
Methinks at home they should not 

stay 
Content with dreams, — but boldly fly 
Abroad, and meet each other half 

the way. 

'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for 

eveiy friend. 
If distance could their union end : 
But love itself does far advance 
Above the power of time and space, 
It scorns such outward circumstance, 
His time 's forever, everywhere his 

place. 




LIGHT SHINING OUT OF 
DAIIKNESS. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea, 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfatliomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up His bright designs, 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take. 
The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
But trust Him for His grace ; 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast. 

Unfolding every hoiu-; 
The bud may have a bitter taste. 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
And scan His work in vain : 

God is His own interpreter. 
And He will make it plain. 



THE POPLAR FIELD. 

The poplars are felled; farewell to 

the shade, 
And the whispering sound of the 

cool colonnade! 
The winds play no longer and sing in 

the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image 

receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I 

first took a view 
Of my favorite field, and the bank 

where they grew; 



And now in the grass behold they 

are laid, 
And the tree is my seat that once 

lent me a shade ! 

The blackbird has fied to another re- 
treat, 

Wliere the hazels afford him a screen 
from the heat, 

And the scene where his melody 
charmed me before 

Resounds with his sweet-flowing 
ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting 

away. 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as 

they. 
With a turf on my breast, and a 

stone at my head. 
Ere another such grove shall arise in 

its stead. 

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any- 
thing can. 

To muse on the perishing pleasures 
of man ; 

Though his life be a dream, his en- 
joyments, 1 see. 

Have a being less durable even than 
he. 



[From The Task.] 

APOSTROPHE TO POPULAR 
APPLAUSE. 

O POPULAR applause! what heart 

of man 
Is proof against thy sweet seducing 

charms ? 
The wisest and the best feel urgent 

need 
Of all their caution in thy gentlest 

gales ; 
But swelled into a gust — who then, 

alas ! 



158 



COW PER. 



With all his canvas set, and inexpert, 

And therefore heedless, can with- 
stand thy power ? 

Praise from the rivelled lips of tooth- 
less, bald 

Decrepitude, and in the looks of 
lean 

And craving poverty, and in the bow 

Respectful of the smutched artificer, 

Is oft too welcome, and may much 
disturb 

The bias of the iiurpose. How 
much more 

Poured forth by beauty splendid and 
polite, 

In language soft as adoration 
breathes ? 

Ah, spare your idol! think him hu- 
man still; 

(.'harms he may have, but he has 
frailties too; 

Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye 
admire. 



\_From The Task.] 
THE FREEDOM OF THE GOOD. 

He is the freeman whom the truth 

makes free. 
And all are slaves beside. There's 

not a chain 
That hellish foes confederate for his 

harm 
Can wind around him, but he casts 

it off 
With as nuicli ease as Samson his 

green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and though poor perhaps, 

compared 
AVith those whose mansions glitter 

in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his 

own. 
His are the movmtains, and the val- 
leys his, 
And the I'esplendent rivers". 

Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye 

that reap 
The loaded soil, and ye may waste 

much good 



In senseless riot; but ye will not find 

In feast or in the chase, in song or 
dance, 

A liberty like his, who unimpeached 

Of usurpation, and to no man's 
wrong, 

Appropriates nature as his Father's 
work. 

And has a richer use of yours, than 
you. 

He is indeed a freeman; free by birth 

Of no mean city, planned or e'er the 
hills 

Were built, the fountains opened, or 
the sea 

With all his roaring multitude of 
waves. 

His freedom is the same in every 
state ; 

And no condition of this changeful 
life, 

ISo manifold in cares, whose every 
day 

Brings its own evil with it, makes it 
less : 

For he has wings that neither sick- 
ness, pain. 

Nor penury can cripple or confine. 

No nook so narrow but he spreads 
them there 

With ease, and is at large. The op- 
pressor holds 

His body bound, but knows not 
what a range 

His si^irit takes, unconscious of a 
chain. 

And that to bind him is a vain at- 
tempt 

Whom God delights in, and in 
whom he dwells. 



[From The Task-.] 
THE WIN^TER'S EVENING. 

Now stir the fire, and close the shut- 
ters fast, 

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa 
round. 

And, Avhile the bubbling and loud- 
hissing urn 

Throws up a steamy column, and 
the cups. 






COWFER. 



159 



That cheer but not inebriate, wait on 

each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shin- 
ing face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, 

squeezed 
And bored with elbow-points through 

both his sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the 

stage : 
Nor his, who patient stands till his 

feet throb. 
And his head thumps, to feed upon 

the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage. 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and 

smiles. 
This folio of four pages, happy work! 
Which not even critics criticize; that 

holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read. 
Fast bound in chains of silence, which 

the fair, 
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear 

to break; 
What is it but a map of busy life, 
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes 

of retreat, 
To peep at such a world ; to see the 

stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the 

crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through 

all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying 

sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured 

ear. 
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at 

ease 
The globe and its concerns, I seem 

advanced 
To some secure and more than mortal 

height, 
Tlaat liberates and exempts me from 

them all. 
It turns submitted to my view, turns 

round 
With all its generations ; I behold 
The tumult, and am still. The sound 

of war 



Has lost its terrors ere It reaches me; 
Grieves, but alarms me not. I movun 

the pride 
And avarice, that make man a wolf 

to man; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen 

throats. 
By which he speaks the language of 

his heart. 
And sigh, but never tremble at the 

sound. 
He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
From flower to floAver, so he from 

land to land ; 
The manners, customs, policy, of all 
Pay contribution to the store he 

gleans ; 
He sucks intelligence in every clime, 
And spreads the honey of his deep 

research 
At his return, — a rich repast for me. 
He travels, and I too. I tread his 

deck, 
Ascend his topmast, through his 

peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindred 

heart 
Suffer his woes, and share in his es- 
capes ; 
While fancy, like the flnger of a 

clock, 
Runs the great circuit, and is still at 

home. 

winter, ruler of the inverted year. 
Thy scattered hair with sleet like 

ashes filled. 

Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, 
thy cheeks 

Fringed with a beard made white with 
other snoMS 

Than those of age. thy forehead 
wrapi)ed in clouds, 

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and 
thy throne 

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 

But urged by storms along its slip- 
pery way, 

1 love thee, all unlovely as thou 

seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art! Thou 

hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning 

east. 



Shortening his journey between morn 
and noon. 

And hurrying him, impatient of his 
stay, 

Down to the rosy west; but ]<indly 
still 

Compensating his loss with added 
hours 

Of social converse and instructive 
ease, 

And gathering at short notice, in one 
group 

The family dispersed, and fixing 
thought. 

Not less dispersed by daylight and 
its cares. 

I crown thee king of intimate de- 
lights. 

Fireside enjoyments, homeborn hap- 
piness. 

And all the comforts that the lowly 
roof 

Of undisturbed retirement, and the 
hours 

Of long uninterrupted evening, know. 

No rattling wheels stop short before 
these gates ; 

No powdered pert proficient in the 
art 

Of sounding an alarm assaults these 
doors 

Till the street rings; no stationary 
steeds 

Cough their own knell, while, heed- 
less of the sound, 

The silent circle fan themselves, and 
quake : 

But here the needle plies its busy 
task. 

The pattern grows, the well-depicted 
flower, 

Wrought patiently into the snowy 
lawn, 

Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, 
and sprigs. 

And curling tendrils, gracefully dis- 
posed. 

Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 

A wreath, that cannot fade, of flow- 
ers, that blow 

With most success when all besides 
decay. 

The poet's or historian's page by 
one 



Made vocal for the amusement of the 
rest ; 

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of 
sweet sounds 

The touch from many a trembling 
chord shakes out; 

And the clear voice symphonious, yet 
distinct. 

And in the charming strife trium- 
phant still, 

Beguile the night, and set a keener 
edge 

On female industiy: the threaded 
steel 

Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task pro- 
ceeds. 



[From The Task.] 
MERCY TO AN[MALS. 

I WOULD not enter on my list of 

friends, 
(Though graced with polished man- 
ners and fine sense, 
Yet wanting sensibility, ) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a 

worm. 
An inadvertent step may crush the 

snail 
That crawls at evening in the public 

path ; 
But he that has humanity, fore- 
warned, 
Will tread aside, and let the reptile 

live. 
The creeping vermin, loathsome to 

the sight, 
And charged perhaps with venom, 

that intrudes, 
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
Sacred to neatness and repose, the 

alcove. 
The chamber, or refectory, may die: 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Not so when, held within their proper 

bounds. 
And guiltless of offence, they range 

the air 
Or take their pastime in the spacious 

field. 
There they are privileged ; and he 

that hunts 



COWPER. 



161 



Or harms thein there is guilty of a 

wrong. 
Disturbs the economy of Nature's 

reahn. 
Who, wlien she formed, designed 

tliem an abode. 
The sum is tliis: If man's conven- 
ience, healtli. 
Or safety interfere, liis rights and 

claims 
Are paramount, and must extinguish 

tlieirs. 
Else they are all — the meanest things 

that are — 
As free to live, and to enjoy that life. 
As God was free to form them at the 

first. 
Who in his sovereign wisdom made 

them all. 
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach 

your sons 
To love it too. 



[From The Task.] 
THE POST-BOY. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn ! o'er 

yonder bridge. 
That with its wearisome but needless 

length 
Bestrides the wintry flood ; in which 

the moon 
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected 

bright : — 
He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
With spattered boots, strapped waist, 

and frozen locks, 
News from all nations lumbering at 

his back. 
True to his task, the close-packed 

load behind. 
Yet careless what he brings, his one 

concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn: 
And having dropped the expected 

bag, pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted 

wretch. 
Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of 

grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to 

some; [joy. 

To him indifferent whether grief or 



[From Retirement.] 

THE SOUL-S PROGRESS CHECKED 
By TOO ABSORBING LOVE. 

As woodbine weds the plant within 

her reach, 
Rough elm, or smooth-grained ash, 

or glossy beech. 
In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and 

lays 
Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays. 
But does a mischief while she lends 

a grace, 
Straitening its growth by such a strict 

embrace. 
So love that clings around the noblest 

minds. 
Forbids the advancement of the soul 

he binds. 



ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 

I AM monarch of all I survey, 
My right there is none to dispute, 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

solitude! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone. 
Never hear the sweet music of speech; 

I start at the souml of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see. 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love. 

Divinely bestowed upon man. 
Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth. 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be clieered by the sallies of 
youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 
Resides in that heavenly word ! 



^> 



^h 



lQ-2 



COWPER. 



More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the soiuid of the church-going 
bell, 
These valleys and rocks never 
heard, 
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, 
Or smiled when a Sabbath ap- 
peared. 

Ye winds that have made me your 
sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore, 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then 
send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is the glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its 
flight. 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of 
light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there; 
But alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair, 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And 1 to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place, 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even affliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



TO MARY. 

The twentieth year is Avell nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast ; — 
Ah, would that this might be the last! 
My Mary ! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow; — 
' Twas my distress that brought thee 
low, 

My Mary ! 



Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore. 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind otlice for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's 

part. 
And all thy threads with magic art. 
Have wound themselves about this 

heart. 

My Maiy ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream: 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the 
theme. 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 
My Mary ! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I 

see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me. 
My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign : 
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine. 
My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limb thou provest. 
That now at every step thou movest. 
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest. 
My Mary ! 

And still to love, though pressed with 

ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill. 
With me is "to be lovely still. 

My Mary I 

But ah ! by constant heed I know. 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe ! 
My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past. 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
My Mary! 



CRABBE. 



163 



George Crabbe. 



[From Edward Shore.] 
THE PERILS OF GENIUS. 

Genius ! thou gift of Heaven ! thou 
light divine! 

Amid wliat dangers art thou doomed 
to sliine ! 

Oft will the body's weakness check 
thy force. 

Oft damp thy vigor, and impede thy 
course ; 

And trembling nerves compel thee to 
restrain 

Thy nobler efforts, to contend Avith 
pain : 

Or Want (sad guest!) will in thy pres- 
ence come, 

And breathe around her melancholy 
gloom : 

To life's low cares will thy proud 
thought confine, 

And make her sufferings, her impa- 
tience thine. 
Evil and strong, seducing passions 
prey 

On soaring minds, and win them from 
their way, 

Who then to Vice the subject spirits 
give, [live: 

And in the service of the conqueror 

Like captive Samson making s^jort 
for all, 

Who feared their strength, and glo- 
ry in tlieir fall. 
Genius, with virtue, still may lack 
the aid 

Implored by humble minds, and 
hearts afraid : 

May leave to timid souls the shield 
and sword 

Of the tried Faitli and the resistless 
Word ; 

Amid a world of dangers venturing 
forth. 

Frail, but yet fearless, proud in con- 
scious worth, 

Till strong temptation, in some fatal 
time. 

Assails the heart, and wins the soul 
to crime; 



When left by honor, and by sorrow 

spent, 
Unused to pray, unable to repent, 
The nobler powers that once exalted 

high 
Th' aspiring man shall then degraded 

lie: 
Reason, through anguish, shall her 

throne forsake. 
And strength of mind but stronger 

madness make. 



[From Edivard Shore.] 

SLEEP THE DETRACTOR OF 
BEAUTY. 

We indeed have heard 

Of sleeping beauty, and it has ap- 
peared : 

'Tis seen in infants — there indeed 
we find. 

The features softened by the slum- 
bering mind ; 

But other beauties, when disposed to 
sleep. 

Should from the eye of keen inspec- 
tor keep: 

The lovely nymph who would her 
swain surprise, 

May close her mouth, but not conceal 
her eyes ; 

Sleep from the fairest face some 
beauty takes. 

And all the homely features homelier 
makes. 



[From Edward Shore.] 
THE VACILLATING PURPOSE. 

Who often reads will sometimes wish 

to write. 
And Shore would yield instruction 

and delight; 
A serious drama he designed, but 

found 
'T was tedious travelling in that 

gloomy ground; 




CRABBE. 



A deep and solemn story he would 

try, 
But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid 

it by; 
Sermons he wrote, but they who knew 

his creed, 
Or knew it not, were ill disposed to 

read ; 
And he would lastly be the nation's 

guide. 
But, studying, failed to fix upon a 

side; 
Fame he desired, and talents he pos- 
sessed, 
But loved not labor, though he could 

not rest, 
Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind. 
That, ever working, could no centre 

find. 



Then cares domestic rush upon his 

mind. 
And half the ease and comfort he 

enjoys. 
Is when surrounded by slates, books, 

and boys. 



[From Schools.'] 
THE TEACHER. 

He, while his troop light-hearted leap 
and play, 

Is all intent on duties of the day; 

No more the tyrant stern cv judge 
severe. 

He feels the father's and the hus- 
band's fear. 
Ah! little think the timid, trem- 
bling crowd, 

That one so wise, so powerful, and 
so proud. 

Should feel himself, and dread the 
humble ills 

Of rent-day charges and of coalmen's 
bills; 

That while they mercy from their 
judge implore. 

He fears himself — a knocking at the 
door: 

And feels the burden as his neighbor 
states 

His humble portion to the parish- 
rates. 
They sit the allotted hours, then 
eager run, 

Rushing to pleasure when the duty 's 
done ; 

His hour of pleasure is of different 
kind. 



[From Schools.] 
LEARNING IS LABOR 

To learning's second seats we now 

proceed. 
Where humming students gilded 

primers read ; 
Or books with letters large and pic- 
tures gay. 
To make their reading but a kind of 

play — 
■' Reading made Easy,' so the titles 

tell: 
But they who read must first begin 

to spell : 
There may be profit in these arts, but 

still. 
Learning is labor, call it what you 

will; 
Upon the youthful mind a heavy load. 
Nor must we hope to find the royal 

road. 
Some will their easy steps to science 

show. 
And some to heaven itself their by- 
way know ; 
Ah ! trust them not, — who fame or 

bliss would share, 
Must learn by labor, and must live by 

care. 



[From, the Gentleman Farmer.] 
FOLLY OF LITIGATION. 

Who would by law regain his plun- 
dered store. 

Would pick up fallen mercury from 
the floor; 

If he pursue it, here and there it 
slides, 

He would collect it, but it more di- 
vides; 



CRABBE. 



165 



This part and this he stops, but still 

in vain, 
It slips aside, and breaks in parts 

again ; 
Till, after time and pains, and care 

and cost, 
He finds his labor and his object lost. 



[From The Gentleman Farmer.'] 
AGAINST RASH OPINIONS. 

When men in health against phy- 
sicians rail, 
They should consider that their 

nerves may fail, 
AVho calls a lawyer rogue, may find, 

too late. 
On one of these depends his whole 

estate : 
Nay, when the world can nothing 

more produce. 
The priest, the insulted priest, may 

have his use ; 
Ease, health, and comfort lift a man 

so high, 
These powers are dwarfs that he can 

scarcely spy : 
Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man 

so low, 
That these neglected dwarfs to giants 

grow : 
Happy is he who through the medium 

sees 
Of clear good sense. 



[From The Parish Register.] 
THE AlFFUL VACANCY. 

Arrived at home, how then they 

gazed around, 
In every place, — where she — no 

more \\as found ; — 
The seat at table she was wont to fill : 
The fireside chair, still set, but vacant 

still: 
The garden-walks, a labor all her own : 
The latticed bower, with trailing 

shrubs o'ergrown; 



The Sunday pew she filled with all 

her race, — 
Each place of hers was now a sacred 

place. 
That, while it called up sorrows in 

the eyes. 
Pierced the full heart and forced them 

still to rise. 
O sacred Sorrow! by whom souls 

are tried. 
Sent not to punish mortals, but to 

guide ; 
If thou art mine, (and who shall 

proudly dare 
To tell his Maker he has had his 

share ?) 
Still let me feel for what thy pangs 

Avere sent, 
And be my guide and not my punish- 
ment! 



[From The Dumb Orators.] 
MAN'S DISLIKE TO BE LED. 

Man will not follow where a rule is 

shown. 
But loves to take a method of his 

own ; 
Explain the way with all your care 

and skill. 
This will he quit, if but to prove he 

will. 



[From The Villag,'.] 

APOSTROPHE TO THE WHIMSI- 
CAL. 

Say, ye opprest by some fantastic 
woes, 

Some jarring nerve that baffles your 
repose ; 

Who press the downy couch while 
slaves advance 

AVith timid eye to read the distant 
glance; 

Who with sad prayers the weary doc- 
tor tease. 

To name the nameless ever-new 
disease ; 



166 



CRABBE. 



Who with mock patience dire com- 
plaints endure, 

Which real pain, and that alone can 
cure ; 

How would ye bear in real pain to lie, 

Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 

How would ye bear to draw yoiu- 
latest breath, 

Where all that's wretched paves the 
way for death ? 



[From Prisons.] 

THE CONDEMNED ; FflS DUE AM 
AND ITS AWAKENING. 

Stili- I behold him, every thought 

employed 
On one dire view! — all others are 

destroyed; 
This makes his features ghastly, gives 

the tone 
Of bis few words resemblance to a 

groan ; 
He takes his tasteless food, and when 

't is done. 
Counts up his meals, now lessened 

by that one; 
For expectation is on time intent, 
AVhether he brings us joy or punish- 
ment. 
Yes! e'en In sleep the impressions 

all remain, 
He hears the sentence and he feels 

the chain ; 
He sees the judge and jury, when he 

shakes. 
And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and 

awakes ; 
Then chilling tremblings o'er his 

body creep. 
Till worn-out nature is compelled to 

sleep. 
Now conies the dream again: it 

shows each scene. 
With each small circumstance that 

comes between — 
The call to suffering and the very 

deed — 
There crowds go with him, follow, 

and precede ; 
Some heartless shout, some pity, all 

condemn. 



While he in fancied envy looks at 
them : 

He seems the place for that sad act to 
see. 

And dreams the very thirst which 
then Mill be: 

A priest attends — it seems, the one 
he knew 

In his best days, beneath whose care 
he grew. 
At this his terrors take a sudden 
flight. 

He sees his native village with de- 
light: 

The house, the chamber, where he 
once arrayed 

His youthful person; where he knelt 
and prayed; 

Then too the comforts be enjoyed at 
home. 

The days of joy : the joys themselves 
are come ; — 

The hours of innocence; — the timid 
look 

Of his loved maid, when first her 
hand he took, 

And told his hope; her trembling 
joy appears. 

Her forced reserve, and his retreat- 
ing fears. 
All now is present; — 'tis a mo- 
ment's gleam 

Of former sunshine — stay, delightful 
dream ! 

Let him within his pleasant garden 
walk. 

Give him her arm; of blessings let 
them talk. 
Yes! all are with him uom', and all 
the while 

Life's early prospects and his Fan- 
ny's smile: 

Then come his sister, and his village- 
friend. 

And he will now the sweetest mo- 
ments spend 

Life has to yield ; — No ! never will he 
find 

Again on earth such pleasures in his 
mind : 

He goes through shrubby walks these 
friends among. 

Love in their looks and honor on 
their tongue : 



CRABBE. 



167 



Nay, there's a chann beyond what 

nature shows. 
The bloom is softer and more sweetly 

glows ; — 
Pierced by no crime, and urged by 

no desire 
For more than true and honest hearts 

require, 
They feel the calm delight, and thus 

proceed, 
Through the green lane, — then lin- 
ger in the mead, — 
Stray o'er the heath in ail its purple 

bloom, — 
And pluck the blossoms where the 

wild bees hum ; 
Then through the broomy bound with 

ease they pass. 
And press the sandy sheep walk's 

slender grass 
Where dwarfish flowers among the 

gorse are spread. 
And the lamb browses by the linnet's 

bed; 
Then 'cross the bounding brook they 

make their way 
O'er its rough bridge and there be- 
hold the bay ! — 
The ocean smiling to the fervid 

sun — 
The waves that faintly fall and slowly 

run — 
The ships at distance and the boats 

at hand ; 
And now they walk upon the sea- 
side sand. 
Counting the number and what kind 

they be, 
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea: 
Now arm in arm, now parted, they 

behold 
The glittering waters on the shingles 

rolled : 
The timid girls, half dreading their 

design, 
Dip the small foot in the retarded 

brine. 
And search for crimson weeds, which 

spreading flow. 
Or lie like pictures on the sand below: 
With all those bright red pebbles, 

that the sun 
Through the small waves so softly 

shines upon ; 



And those live lucid jellies which the 

eye 
Delights to trace as they swim glit- 
tering by : 
Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they 

admire, 
And will arrange above the parlor 

fire, — 
Tokens of bliss! — " Oh! horrible! a 

wave 
Roars as it rises — save me, Edward I 

save!" 
She cries : — Alas ! the watchman on 

his Avay 
Calls, and lets in — truth, terror, and 

the day ! 



[From The Lover's Journey.] 

EXTERNAL IMPRESSIONS DEPEN- 
DENT ON THE SOUL'S MOODS. 

It is the Soul that sees: the out- 
ward eyes 

Present the object, but the Mind de- 
scries ; 

And thence delight, disgust, or cool 
indifference rise: 

When minds are joyful, then we look 
around. 

And what is seen is all on fairy 
ground ; 

Again they sicken, and on every view 

Cast their own dull and melancholy 
hue ; 

Or, if absorbed by their peculiar cares, 

The vacant eye on viewless matter 
glares. 

Our feelings still upon our views at- 
tend, 

And their own natures to the objects 
lend ; [sure. 

Sorrow and joy are in their influence 

Long as the passion reigns th' effects 
endure : 

But Love in minds his various changes 
makes, 

And clothes each object with the 
change he takes ; 

His light and shade on every view 
he throws. 

And on each object, what he feels, 
bestows. 



168 



CRABBE. 



[From The Parting Hour.) 
LIFE. 

Minutely trace man's life: year 

after year, 
Through all his days let all his deeds 

appear, 
And then, though some may in that 

life be strange, 
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden 

change: 
The links that bind those various 

deeds are seen. 
And no mysterious void is left be- 
tween. 
But let these binding links be all 

destroyed, 
All that through years he suffered or 

enjoyed : 
Let that vast gap be made, and then 

behold — 
This was the youth, and he is thus 

when old ; 
Then we at once the work of time 

survey. 
And in an instant see a life's decay; 
Pain mixed with pity in our bosoms 

rise, 
And sorrow takes new sadness from 

surprise. 



[From The Parting Hour.} 
FRIENDSHIP IN AGE AND SORRO W. 

Beneath yon tree, observe an an- 
cient pair — 

A sleeping man; a woman in her 
chaii'. 

Watching his looks with kind and 
pensive air; 

Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the 
name 

Xor kindred of this friendly pair the 
same ; 

Yet so allied are they, that few can 
feel 

Her constant, warm, unwearied, anx- 
ious zeal ; 

Their years and woes, although they 
long have loved. 

Keep their good name and conduct 
unreproved ; 



Thus life's small comforts they to- 
gether share, 

And while life lingers, for the grave 
prepai-e, 
No other subjects on their spirits 
press. 

Nor gain such Interest as the past dis- 
tress ; 

Grievous events, that from the mem- 
ory drive 

Life's common cares, and those alone 
survive. 

Mix Avith each thought, in every ac- 
tion share, 

Darken each dream, and blend with 
every prayer. 



[From The Library.'] 
CONTIiO VERSIALIS TS. 

Against her foes Religion well de- 
fends 
Her sacred truths, but often fears her 

friends ; 
If learned, their pride, if weak, their 

zeal she dreads. 
And their hearts' weakness who have 

soimdest heads : 
But most she fears the controversial 

pen, 
The holy strife of disputatious men ; 
Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page 

explore, 
Only to tight against its precepts 

more. 



[From The Librarij.] 
TO CRITICS. 

Foes to our race! if ever ye have 
known 

A father's fears for offspring of your 
own ; 

If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line. 

Ye thought the sudden sentiment di- 
vine. 

Then paused and doubted, and then 
tired of doubt. 

With rage as sudden dashed the stanza 
out ; — 



CRABBE. 



169 



If, after fearing much and pausing 
long. 

Ye ventured on the world yoiu' la- 
bored song, 

And from the crusty critics of those 
days 

Implored the feeble tribute of their 
praise. 

Remember now the fears that moved 
you then, 

And, spite of truth, let mercy guide 
your pen. 



[From The Library. "l 
PHILOSOPHY. 

How vice and virtue in the soul 

contend ; 
How widely differ, yet how nearly 

blend ; 
What various passions war on either 

part, 
And now confirm, now melt the 

yielding heart: 
How Fancy loves around the world 

to stray. 
While Judgment slowly picks his 

sober way; 
The stores of memory, and 'the 

flights sublime 
Of genius bound by neither space nor 

time; — 
All these divine Philosophy explores. 
Till , lost in awe, she wonders and 

adores. 



[From The Library.] 
THE UNIVERSAL LOT. 

Care lives with all; no rules, no 

preceiJts save 
The wise from woe, no fortitude the 

bra\e ; 
Grief is to man as certain as the 

grave : 
Tempests and storms in life's whole 

progress rise, 



And hope shines dimly through o'er- 

clouded skies; 
Some drops of comfort on the favored 

fall, 
But showers of sorrow are the lot of 

all : 
Partial to talents, then, shall Heaven 

withdraw 
Th' afflicting rod, or break the general 

law ? 
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier 

views, 
Life's little cares and little pains re- 
fuse ? 
Shall he not rather feel a double share 
Of mortal woe, when doubly armed 

to bear ? 



[From The Library.] 

UNION OF FAITH AND REASON 
NECESSAR Y. 

When first Religion came to bless 
the land. 

Her friends were then a firm believ- 
ing band, 

To doubt was then to plunge in guilt 
extreme. 

And all was gospel that a monk could 
dream ; 

Insulted Reason fled the grovelling 
soul, 

For Fear to guide, and visions to con- 
trol ; 

But now, when Reason has assumed 
her throne, 

She, in lier turn, demands to reign 
alone; 

Rejecting all that lies beyond her 
view. 

And, being judge, will be a witness 
too: 

Insulted Faith then leaves the doubt- 
ful mind, 

To seek the truth, without a power to 
find: 

Ah! when will both in friendly beams 
unite. 

And pour on erring man resistless 
liiiht ? 



170 



CRAIK. 



[From The Library.] 


They soothe the grieved, the stub- 


BOOKS. 


born they chastise, 
Fools they admonish, and confirm 




the wise; 


But what strange art, what magic 
can dispose 
The troubled mind to change its na- 


Their aid they yield to all ; they never 

shun 
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch 


tive woes ? 


undone ; 


Or lead us willing from ourselves, to 


Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the 


see 
Others more wretched, more undone 


proud, 
They fly not sullen from the suppli- 


than we ? 


ant crowd ; 


This BOOKS can do; — nor this alone ; 


Nor tell to various people various 


they give 
New views to life, and teach us how 
to live; 


things. 
But show to subjects what they show 
to kings. 



Dinah Mulock Craik. 



GEE EX THINGS GROWING. 

Oh, the green things growing, the 

green things growing, 
The faint sweet smell of the green 

things growing! 
I should like to live, whether I smile 

or grieve. 
Just to watcli the happy life of my 

green things growing. 

Oil, the fluttering and the pattering 

of those green things growing! 
How they talk each to each, when 

none of us are knowing; 
In the wonderful white of the weird 

moonlight 
Or the dim dreamy dawn when the 

cocks are crowing. 

I love, I love them so, — my green 
things growing! 

And I think that they love me, with- 
out false showing; 

For by many a tender touch, they 
comfort me so mucli. 

With the soft mute comfort of green 
things growing. 



And in the rich store of their blos- 
soms glowing 

Ten for one 1 take they're on me be- 
stowing: 

Oh, I should like to see, if God's will 
it may be. 

Many, many a sunmier of my green 
things growing! 

But if I must be gathered for the an- 
gels' sowing. 

Sleep out of sight awhile, like the 
green things growing. 

Though dust to dust return, I think 
I'll scarcely mourn, 

If I may change into green things 
growing. 



NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 

"Two hands upon the breast. 

And labor's done; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 
The race is won; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 




PLIGHTED. 



Page i/i. 



CRAIK. 



171 



Two lips where grief is mute, 
Anger at peace; " 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning 

our lot 
God in his kindness answereth not. 

" Two hands to work addrest 

Aye for His praise; 
Two feet that never rest 

Walking His ways ; 
Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears; 
Two lips still breathing love. 
Not wrath, nor fears; " 
So pray we afterwards, low on oiu' 

knees ; 
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, 
hear these! 



PLIGHTED. 

Mine to the core of the heart, my 

beauty ! 
Mine, all mine, and for love, not 

duty : 
Love given willingly, full and free, 
Love for love's sake, — as mine to 

thee. 
Duty's a slave that keeps the keys. 
But Love, the master, goes in and out 
Of his goodly chambers with song 

and shout. 
Just as he please, — just as he 

please. 

Mine, from the dear head's crown, 
brown-golden. 

To the silken foot that's scarce be- 
holden ; 

Give to a few friends hand or smile, 

Like a generous lady, now and 
awhile. 
But the sanctuary heart, that none 
dare win. 

Keep holiest of holiest evermore; 

The crowd in the aisles may watch 
the door. 
The high-priest only enters in. 

Mine, my own, without doubts or 

terrors, 
With all thy goodnesses, all thy 

errors. 



ITnto me and to me alone revealed, 

"A spring shut up, a fountain 
sealed." 
Many may praise thee, — praise 
mine as thine. 

Many may love thee, — I'll love them 
too; 

But thy heart of hearts, pure, faith- 
ful, and true. 
Must be mine, mine wholly, and 
only mine. 

Mine!— God, I thank Thee that 

Thou hast given 
Something all mine on this side 

heaven : 
Something as much myself to be 
As this my soul which I lift to Thee: 
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone ; 
Life of my life, whom Thou dost 

make 
Two to the world for the world's 

work's sake, — 
But each unto each, as in Thy 

sight, one. 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

Look at me with thy large brown 
eyes, 

Philip, my king. 
Round whom the enshadowing pur- 
ple lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities; 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 
With love's invisible sceptre laden 
I am thine Esther to conmiand 
Till thou shalt find a queen-hand- 
maiden, 
Philip, my king. 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-woo- 

ing, 
Philip, my king! 
When those beautiful lips are suing. 
And some gentle heart's bars undoing 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and 

there 
Sittest love-glorified. Pule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, 
For we that love, ah! we love so 

blindly, 

Philip, my king. 



172 



CRAIK. 



Up from thy sweet mouth, — up to 

thy brow, 

Philip, my king! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping 

now 
May rise like a giant and make men 

bow 
As to one heaven-chosen amongst 

his peers: 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller 

and fairer 
Let me behold thee in future years; 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
PhiliiJ, my king. 

— A wreath not of gold, but palm. 

One day, 
Philip, my king, 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a 

way 
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
Rebels within thee and foes without. 
Will snatcli at thy crown. But march 

on, glorious. 
Martyr, yet monarch; till angels 

shout [victorious, 

As thou sit'st at the feet of God 
"Philip, the king!" 



TOO LATE. 

Could you come back to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 
In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, 
Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve 
you, 
I'd smile on you sweet as the angels 
do; — 
Sweet as your smile on me shone 
ever. 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh, to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words 

were few, 

Do you know the truth now up in 

heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? 



I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of you: 
Now all men beside seem to me like 
shadows, — 
I love you, Douglas, tender and 
true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Doug- 
las, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like 
dew ; 
As I lay my heart on your dead 
heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



RESIGNING. 

CuiLDiiEX, that lay their pretty gar- 
lands by 

So piteously, yet with a humble 
mind; 

Sailors, who, when their ship rocks 
in the wind, 

Cast out her freight with half-averted 
eye, 

Riches for life exchanging solemnly, 

Lest they should never gain the 
wished-f or shore ; — 

Thus we, O Father, standing Thee 
before, 

Do lay down at Thy feet without a 
sigh 

Each after each our precious things 
and rare, 

Our dear heart-jewels and oiu- gar- 
lands fair. 

Perhaps Thou knewest that the flow- 
ers would die, 

And the long-voyaged hoards be 
fomid but dust : 

So took'st tlieni, while imchanged. 
To Thee Me trust 

For incorruptible treasure : Thou art 
just. 



MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 

Look at his pretty face for just one 
minutt;! 
His braided frock and dainty but- 
toned shoes ; 



GRANGH. 



173 



His firm-shut hand, the favorite 
plaything in it, — 
Then tell me, mothers, was't not 
hard to lose 
And miss him from my side,— 
My little boy that died ? 

How many another boy, as dear and 
charming, [delight, 

His father's hope, his mother's one 
Slips through strange sicknesses, all 
fear disarming, 
And lives a long, long life in par- 
ents' sight! 
Mine was so short a pride ! 
And then, — my poor boy died. 

I see him rocking on his wooden 

charger ; 

I hear him pattering through the 

house all day ; 

I watch his great blue eyes grow 

large and larger, jor gay, 

Listening to stories, whether grave 



Told at the bright fireside. 
So dark now, since he died. 

But yet I often think my boy is liv- 
ing, 
As living as my other children are. 
When good-night kisses I all round 
am giving, 
I keep one for him, though he is 
so far. 
Can a mere grave divide 
Me from him,— though he died ? 

So, while I come and plant it o'er 
with daisies 
(Nothing but childish daisies all 
year round). 
Continually God's hand the curtain 
raises. 
And I can hear his merry voice's 
sound, 
And feel him at my side, — 
My little boy that died. 



Christopher Pearse Cranch. 



A THRUSH IN A GILDED CAGE. 

Was this the singer I had heard so 
long. 
But never till this evening, face to 
face? 
And were they his, those tones so 
unlike song. 
Those words conventional and 
commonplace ? 

Those echoes of the usual social chat 
That filled with noise confused the 
crowded hall; 
That smiling face, black coat, and 
white cravat; 
Those fashionable manners,— was 
this all ? 

He glanced at freed men, operas, pol- 
itics. 
And other common topics of the 
day; 



But not one brilliant image did he 
mix 
With all the prosy things he had to 
say. 

At least 1 hoped that one I long had 
known. 
In the inspired books that built his 
fame, 
Would breathe some word, some 
sympathetic tone. 
Fresh" from the ideal region whence 
he came. 

And so I leave the well-dressed, buzz- 
ing crowd. 
And vent my spleen alone here by 
my fire; 
Mourning the fading of my golden 
cloud. 
The disappointment of my life s 
desire. 



Simple enthusiast! why do you re- 
quire 
A budding rose for every thorny 
stalk '? 
Why must we poets always bear the 
lyre 
And sino;, when fashion forces us 
to talk ? 

Only at moments comes the muse's 
light. 
Alone, like shy wood-thrushes, war- 
ble we. 
Catch us in traps like this dull crowd 
to-night, 
We are but plain, brown -feathered 
birds, you see! 



COMPENSA TION. 

Tears wash away the atoms in the 
eye 
That smarted for a day ; 
Rain-clouds that spoiled the splen- 
dors of the sky 
The fields with flowers array. 

No chamber of pain but has some 
hidden door 

That promises release ; [store 

No solitude so drear but yields its 

Of thought and inward peace. 

No night so wild but brings the con- 
stant sun 
With love and power untold ; 
No time so dark but through its woof 
there run 
Some blessed threads of gold. 

And through the long and storm-tost 
centuries burn 
In changing calm and strife 
The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er 
we turn, — 
The unquenched lamps of life. 

O Love supreme! O Providence di- 
vine! 
What self-adjusting springs 
Of law and life, what even scales, 
are thine. 
What sure-returning wings 



Of hopes and joys that flit like birds 
away, 
When chilling autumn blows. 
But come again, long ere the buds of 
May 
Their rosy lips unclose! 

What wondrous play of mood and 
accident 

Through shifting days and years ; 
What fresh returns of vigor overspent 

In feverish dreams and fears! 

AMiat wholesome air of conscience 
and of thought 
When doubts and forms oppress ; 
What vistas opening to the gates we 
sought 
Beyond the wilderness; 

Beyond the narrow cells where self- 
involved. 
Like chrysalids, Ave wait 
The unknown births, the mysteries 
unsolved 
Of death and change and fate ! 

O Light divine! we need no fuller 
test 
That all is ordered well; 
We know enough to trust that all is 
best 
Where Love and Wisdom dwell. 



MEMORIAL HALL. 

Amid the elms that interlace 

Round Harvard's grounds their 
branches tall, 
We greet no walls of statelier grace 
Than thine, our proud Memorial 
Hall ! 



Through arching boughs and roofs of 
green 
Whose dappled lights and shadows 
lie 
Along the turf and road, is seen 
Thy noble form against the sky. 



And miles away, on fields and 
streams, 
Or M'here the woods the hilltop 
crown. 
The monumental temple gleams, 
A landmark to each neighboring 
town. 

Nor this alone ; New England knows 
A deeper meaning in the pride 

Whose stately architecture shows 
How Harvard's children fought 
and died. 

Therefore this hallowed pile recalls 
The heroes, young and true and 
brave. 
Who gave their memories to these 
walls. 
Their lives to fill the soldier's 
grave. 

The farmer, as he drives his team 
To market in the morn, afar 

Beholds the golden sunrise gleam 
Upon thee, like a glistening star. 

And gazing, he remembers well 
Why stands yon tower so fair and 
tall. 
Ills sons perhaps in battle fell ; 
For him, too, shines Memorial 
Hall. 

And sometimes as the student glides 
Along the winding Charles, and sees 

Across the flats thy glowing sides 
Above the elms and willow-trees. 

Upon his oar he'll turn and pause, 
Remembering the heroic aims 

Of those who linked their country's 
cause 
In deathless glory with their names. 

And as against the moonlit sky 
The shadowy mass looms overhead, 

Well may we linger with a sigh 
Beneath the tablets of the dead. 

The snow-drifts on thy roof shall 
wreathe 
Their crowns of virgin white for 
them ; 



The whispering winds of summer 
breathe 
At morn and eve their requiem. 

For them the Cambridge bells shall 
chime 

Across the noises of the town ; 
The cannon's peal recall their time 

Of stern resolve and brief renown. 

Concord and Lexington shall still. 
Like deep to deep, to Harvard call; 

The tall gray shaft on Bunker Hill 
Speak greetings to Memorial Hall. 

Oh, never may the land forget 
Her loyal sons who died that we 

Might live, remembering still our 
debt. 
The costly price of Liberty ! 



THOUGHT. 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
Souls to souls can never teach 
^\llat nnto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils; 
Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 
To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known ; 
Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 
Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart though seeming near, 
In our light we scattered lie; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 
lint a babbling summer stream ? 
What oiu" wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream '? 

Only when the svin of love 
Melts the scattered stars of thought. 
Only when we live above 
What the dim-eyed world hath 
taught ; 



176 



CRANCH. 



Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 

And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We, like parted drops of rain, 
Swelling till they meet and run, 
Shall be all absorbed again. 
Melting, flowing into one. 



/ lyf THEE, AND THOU IN ME. 

I AM but clay in thy hands, but Thou 
art the all-loving artist. 
Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my 
selfhood 1 strive 
So to embody the life and the love 
thou ever impartest, 
That in my sphere of the finite, I 
may be truly alive. 

Knowing thou needest this form, as 
I thy divine inspiration. 
Knowing thou shapest the clay with 
a vision and purpose divine, 
So would I answer each touch of thy 
hand in its loving creation. 
That in my conscious life thy pow- 
er and beauty may shine, 

Reflecting the noble intent thou hast 
in forming thy creatures ; 
Waking from sense into life of the 
soul, and the image of thee; 
Working with thee in thy work to 
model humanity's features 
Into the likeness of God, myself 
from myself I Mould free. 

One with all human existence, no 
one above or below me ; 
Lit by thy wisdom and love, as 
roses are steeped in the morn; 
Growing from clay to a statue, from 
statue to flesh, till thou know 
me 
Wrought into manhood celestial, 
and in thine image re-born. 

So in thy love will I trust, bringing 
me sooner or later 
Past the dark screen that divides 
these shows of the finite from 
thee. 



Thine, thine only, this warm, dear 
life. O loving Creator ! 
Thine the invisible future, born of 
the present, must be. 



SOFT, BROWN, SMILING EYES. 

Soft, brown, smiling eyes. 

Looking back through years, 
Smiling through the mist of time. 

Filling mine with tears; 
On this sunny morn, 

While the grape-blooms swing 
In the scented air of June, — 

Why these memories bring ? 

Silky rippling curls. 

Tresses long ago 
Laid beneath the shaded sod 

Where the violets blow; 
Why across the blue 

Of the peerless day 
Do ye droop to meet my own. 

Now all turned to gray ? 

Voice whose tender tones 

Break in sudden mirth. 
Heard far back in boyhood's spring, 

Silent now on earth ; 
Why so sweet and clear. 

While the bird and bee 
Fill the balmy summer air, 

Come your tones to me ? 

Sweet, ah, sweeter far 

Than yon thrush's trill. 
Sadder, sweeter than the wind, 

Woods, or murmuring rill. 
Spirit words and songs 

O' er my senses creep. 
Do I breathe the air of dreams ? 

Do I wake or sleep '? 



WHY? 



Why was I born, and wliere was I 
Before this living mystery 
That weds the body to the soul ? 
What are the laws by whose control 



CRANCH. 



17' 



I live and feel and think and know ? 
What the allegiance that I owe 
To tides beyond all time and space ? 
AVhat form of faith must I embrace ? 
Why thwarted, starved, and over- 
borne 
By fate. — an exile, driven forlorn 
By titful winds, where each event 
Seems but the whirl of accident'? 
Why feel our wings so incomplete, 
Or, flying, but a plumed deceit, 
Renewing all our lives to us 
The fable old of Icarus ? 

Tell me the meaning of the breath 
That whispers from the house of 

death. 
That chills thought's metaphysic 

strife. 
That dims the dream of After-life. 
Why, if we lived not ere our birth, 
Hope for a state beyond this earth ? 
Tell me the secret of the hope 
That gathers, as \\e upwards ope 
The skylights of the prisoned soul 
Unto the perfect and the whole; 
Yet why the loveliest things of earth 
Mock in their death their glorious 

birth. 
Why, when the scarlet sunset floods 
The west beyond the hills and woods. 
Or June with roses crowds my porch. 
Or northern lights with crimson 

torch 
Illume the snow and veil the stars 
With streaming bands and wavering 

bars. 
Or music's sensuous, soul-like wine 
Intoxicates with trance divine. — 
Why then must sadness like a thief 
Steal my aromas of belief, 
And like a cloud that shuts the day 
At sunrise, turn my gold to gray ? 

Tell me why instincts meant for good 
Turn to a madness of the blood ; 
And, baffling all our morals nice, 
Nature seems nearly one with vice; 
What sin and misery mean, if blent 
With good in one ilivine intent. 
Why from such source must evil 

spring. 
And finite still mean suffering '/ 



Look on the millions born to blight; 
The souls that pine for warmth and 

light: 
The crushed and stifled swarms that 

pack 
The fold streets and the alleys black, 
The miserable lives that cra\\l 
Outside the grim partition wall 
'Twixt rich and poor, 'twixt foul and 

fair, 
'Twixt vaulting hope and lame de- 
spair. 
On that wall's sunny side, within, 
Hang ripening fruits and tendrils 

green. 
O'er garden-beds of bloom and spice. 
And perfume as of paradise. 
There happy children run and talk 
Along the shade-flecked gravel-walk. 
And lovers sit in rosy bowers. 
And music overflows the hours, 
x\.nd wealth and health and mirth 

and books 
Make pictures in Arcadian nooks. 
But on that wall's grim outer stones 
The fierce north-wind of winter 

groans ; 
Through blinding dust, o'er bleak 

highway, 
The slant sun's melancholy ray 
Sees stagnant pool and poisonous 

weed. 
The hearts that faint, the feet that 

bleed. 
The grovelling aim, the flagging 

faith. 
The starving curse, the drowning 

death ! 

O wise philosopher! you soothe 
Our troubles with a touch too 

smooth. 
Too plausibly your reasonings come. 
They will not guide me to my home; 
They lead me on a little way 
Through meadows, groves, and gar- 
dens gay. 
Until a wall shuts out my day, — 
A screen whose top is hid in clouds. 
Whose base is deep on dead men's 

shrouds. 
Could I dive under pain and death. 
Or mount and breathe the who!? 
heaven's breath. 



178 



CROLY. 



I might begin to comprehend 
How the Beginning joins the End. 



We agonize in doubt, perplexed 
O'er fate, free-will, and Bible-text. 
In vain. The spirit finds no vent 
From out the imprisoning tempera- 
ment. 



Therefore I bow my spirit to the 

Power 
That underflows and fills my little 

hour. 
I feel the eternal symphony afloat, 
In Mhich I am a breath, a passing 

note. 
I may be but a dull and jarring nerve 
In the great body, yet some end I 

serve. 

Yea, though I dream and question 
still the dream 

Thus floating by me upon Being's 
stream, 

Some end I serve. Love reigns. I 
cannot lose 

The Primal Light, though thousand- 
fold its hues. 



I can believe that somewhere Truth 

abides; 
Not in the ebb and flow of those 

small tides 
That float the dogmas of our saints 

and sects ; 
Not in a thousand tainted dialects. 
But in the one pure language, could 

we hear. 
That fills with love and light the ser- 
aphs' sphere. 
I can believe there is a Central Good, 
That burns and shines o'er tempera- 
ment and mood ; 
That somewhere God will melt the 

clouds away. 
And his great purpose shine as 

shines the day. 
Then may we know M'hy now we 

could not know; 
Why the great Isis-curtain drooped 

so low; 
Why we were blindfold on a path of 

light; 
Why came wild gleams and voices 

through the night; 
Why we seemed drifting, storm-tost, 

without rest. 
And were but rocking on a mother's 

breast. 



George Croly. 



EVENING. 

When eve is purpling cliff and cave. 
Thoughts of the heart, liow soft ye 
flow ! 

Not softer on the western wave 
The golden lines of smiset glow. 

Then all, by chance or fate removed, 
Like spirits crowd upon the eye; 

The few we liked — the one we loved ! 
And the whole heart is memory. 

And life is like a fading flower, 
Its beauty dying as we gaze; 

Yet as the shadows round us lour. 
Heaven pours above a brighter 
blaze. 



When morning sheds its gorgeous 

Our hope, our heart, to earth is 
given; 
But dark and lonely is tlie eye 
That tiu'ns not. at its eve, to lieaven. 



CUPID GROWN CAREFUL. 

There Avas once a gentle time 

When the world was in its prime; 

And every day was holiday, 

And every month was lovely May. 

Cupid then had but to go 

With his purple wings and bow: 



CROWNE — CUNNINGHAM. 



179 



And in blossomed vale and grove 
Every shepherd knelt to love. 
Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, 
And a blue eye, fond and meek; 
And a ringlet-wreathen brow, 
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow : 
And a low voice, silver sweet, 
From a lip without deceit: 
Only these the hearts could move 
Of the simple swains to love. 

But that time is gone and past, 
Can the summer always last ? 
And the swains are wiser grown, 
And the heart is tiu-ned to stone, 



And the maiden's rose may wither; 
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither. 
But another Cupid's come. 
With a brow of care and gloom: 
Fixed upon the earthly mould, 
Thinking of the sullen gold; 
In his hand the bow no more. 
At his back the household store. 
That the bridal gold nuist buy: 
Useless now the smile and sigh; 
But he wears the pinion still. 
Flying at the sight of ill. 

Oh, for the old true-love time, 
When the world was in its prime! 



John Crowne. 

WISHES FOR ODSCUniTY. 



How miserable a thing is a great 

man! 
Take noisy vexing greatness they 

that please; (ease. 

Give me obscure and safe and silent 
Acquaintance and commerce let me 

have none 
With any powerful thing but time 

alone : 
My rest let Time be fearful to offend, 
And creep by me as by a slumbering 

friend ; 



Oh, wretched he who, called abroad 

by power. 
To know himself can never find an 

hour! 
Strange to himself, but to all others 

knoMU, 
Lends every one his life, but uses 

none ; 
So, ere he tasted life, to death he 

goes, 
And himself loses ere himself he 

knows. 



Allan Cunningham. 



THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. 

Tiiou hast sworn by thy God, my 
Jeanie, 
By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
Anil by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad aye be mine; 
And I liae sworn by my God, my 
Jeanie, 
And by that kind heart o' thine. 
By a' the stars sown thick owre 
heaven. 
That thou shalt aye be mine. 



Then foul fa' the hands that wad 
loose sic bands, 
An' the heart that wad part sic 
luve ; 
But there's nae hand can loose my 
band. 
But the finger o' God abuve. 
Though the wee, wee cot maun be 
my bield. 
And my claithing e'er so mean, 
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' 
luve. 
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 



180 



CUNNINOEAM. 



Her white arm wad be a pillow for me 

Far saf ter than the down ; 
And lave wad winnow owre us his 
kind, kind wings, 
An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. 
Come here to me, thou lass o' my 
luve, 
Come here, and kneel wi' me ! 
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' 
God. 
An' I canna pray without thee. 

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang tlie 
beds o' new flowers, 
The wee birds sing kindlie an" hie; 
Our gudeman leans owre his kale- 
yard dyke. 
And a blitlie auld bodie is he. 
The beuk maun l)e taen when the 
carle conies liame. 
Wi' the holie psalniodie; 
And thou maun speak o" me to thy 
God. 
And I will speak o' thee. 



SHE'S GANE TO DWELL IN 
HE A VEX. 

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my 
lassie. 

She's gane to dwall in heaven: 
Ye" re owre pure, quo" the voice o' God, 

For dwalling out o" heaven ! 

O, what'll she do in heaven, my las- 
sie ? 
O, what'll she do in heaven ? 
She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' an- 
gels' sangs, 
An' make them mair meet for 
heaven. 

She was beloved by a', my lassie, 

She was beloved by a' ; 
But an angel fell in love \\ i" her. 

An' took her frae us a'. 

Low there thou lies, my lassie, 

Low there thou lies, 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the 
yird, 

Nor fra it will arise! 



Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee; 
Thou left me naught to covet ahin' 

But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 

I looked on thy death-cold face, my 
lassie, 

I looked on thy death-cold face; 
Thou seemed a lily new cut 1" the bud, 

An' fading in its place. 

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my 
lassie, 
I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 
An' a lovelier liglit in the brow o' 
heaven 
Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my 
lassie. 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
But gane was the holy breath o' heav- 
" en. 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There's naught but dust now mine, 
lassie, 

There's naught but dust now mine; 
My Saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 

An' why should I stay behin' ? 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING 
SEA. 

A "WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast. 
And fills the white and rustling sail. 

And bends the gallant mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on our lee. 

" O for a soft and gentle wind ! " 

I heard a fair one cry : 
But give to me the swelling breeze. 

And white waves heaving higli, — 
The white waves heaving higli, my 
lads. 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home, 

And meriy men are we. 



CURTIS — DANA. 



181 



George William Curtis. 



MAJOR AND MlNOIi. 

A BiiJD sang sweet and strong 
In the top of the highest tree ; 

He sang, — "1 pour out my soul in 
song 
For the summer that soon shall be. ' ' 

But deep in the shady wood 
Another bird sang, — "I pour 

iMy soul on the solemn solitude 
For the springs that return no 
more." 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 

Sixfi again the.song you sung, 
"When we were together young — 
When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 



Sing the song, and o'er and o'er. 
Though 1 know that nevermore 
AVill it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 



MUSIC IN THE AIR. 

Oh, listen to the howling sea, 
That beats on the remorseless shore ; 

Oh, listen, for that sound shall be. 
When our wild hearts shall beat no 
more. 

Oh, listen well, and listen long! 

For, sitting folded close to me. 
You could not hear a sweeter song 

Than that hoarse murmur of the 
sea. 



Richard Henry Dana. 



THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S 
GRA VE. 

Husband and wife ! no converse now 
ye hold. 

As once ye did in your young days of 
love. 

On its alarms, its anxious hours, de- 
lays, 

Its silent meditations and glad hopes, 

Its fears, impatience, quiet sympa- 
thies; 

Xor do ye speak of joy assured, and 
bliss 

Full, certain, and possessed. Domes- 
tic cares 

Call you not now together. Earnest 
talk 

On what your children may be, moves 
you not. 

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence; 

Not like to that in which ye rested 
once 

Most happy, — silence eloquent, when 
heart 



With heart held speech, and your 

mysterious frames. 
Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat, 
Touched the soft notes of love. 

A stillness deep. 
Insensible, imheeding, folds you 

round. 
And darkness, as a stone, has sealed 

you in ; 
Away from all the living, liere ye rest. 
In ah tlie nearness of the narrow 

tomb. 
Yet feel ye not each other's presence 

now ; — 
Dread fellowship ! — together, yet 

alone. 



Why is it that I linger round this 

tomb? 
What liolds it? Dust that cumbered 

those I mourn. 
They shook it off, and laid aside 

earth's robes. 



182 



DANA. 



And put on those of light. They' re 

gone to dwell 
In love, — their (Jod's and angels' ! 

Mutual love, 
That bound them here, no longer 

needs a speecli 
For full communion; nor sensations, 

strong, 
Within the breast, their prison, strive 

in vain 
To be set free, and meet their kind 

in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that 

rise in each 
Cy natures new, impart themselves, 

though silent. 
Each quickening sense, each throb 

of holy love. 
Affections sanctified, and the full 

glow [one. 

Of being, which expand and gladden 
By union all mysterious, thrill and 

live 
In both immortal frames; — sensa- 
tion all. 
And thought, pervading, mingling 

sense and thought I 
Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a con- 
sciousness 
Twofold, yet single, — this is love, 

this life! 



THE SOUL. 

Come, brother, turn with me from 

pining thought 
And all the inward ills that sin has 

wrought; 
Come, send abroad a love for all who 

live. 
And feel the deep content in turn 

they give. 
Kind wishes and good deeds, — they 

make not poor; 
They '11 home again, full laden, to thy 

door; 
The streams of love flow back where 

they begin. 
For springs of outward joys lie deep 

within. 
Even let them flow, and make the 

places glad 



Where dwell thy fellow -men. — 
Shouldst thou be sad, 

And earth seem bare, and hours, once 
hajjpy, press 

Upon thy thoughts, and make thy 
loneliness 

More lonely for the past, thou then 
shall hear 

The music of those waters running 
near ; 

And thy faint spirit drink the cooling 
stream, 

And thine eye gladden with the play- 
ing beam 

That now upon the water dances, now 

Leaps up and dances in the hanging 
bough. 
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where 
doth dwell 

The power that wrought so beautiful 
a spell? 

In thine own bosom, brother ? Then 
as thine 

Guard with a reverent fear this power 
divine. 
And if, indeed, 'tis not the out- 
ward state. 

But temper of the soul by which we 
rate 

Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom 
move 

With noble thoughts and ^\ake thee 
into love; 

And let each feeling in thy breast be 
given 

An honest aim, which, sanctified by 
Heaven, 

And springing into act, new life im- 
parts, 

Till beats thy frame as with a thou- 
sand hearts. 
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision 
from its birth. 

Around the self-starved soul has 
spread a dearth. 

The earth is full of life; the living 
Hand 

Touched it with life ; and all its forms 
expand 

With principles of being made to suit 

Man's varied powers and raise him 
from the brute. 

And shall the earth of higher ends be 
full, — 




DEM ARE ST. 



183 



Earth which thou tread' st, — and thy 

poor mind be dull ? 
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul 

asleep ? 
Thou "living dead man," let thy 

sjiirit leap 
Forth to the day, and let the fresh 

air blow 
Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. 

U'ouidst thou know 
Something of what is life, shake off 

this death; [breath 

Have thy soul feel the universal 
With which all nature's quick, and 

learn to be [see; 

Sharer in all that thou dost touch or 



Break from thy body's grasp, thy 

spirit's trance; 
Give thy soul air, thy faculties ex- 
panse ; 
Love, joy, even sorrow, — yield tliy- 

seif to all! 
They make thy freedom, groveller, 

not thy thrall. 
Knock off the shackles which thy 

spirit bind 
To dust and sense, and set at large 

the mind ! 
Then move in sympathy with God's 

great whole, 
And be like man at first, a living 

soul. 



Mary Lee Demarest. 



MY AIN COUNTREE. 

I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary 

aftenwhiles, 
For the langed-f or hanie-bringing, an' 

my Father's welcome smiles; 
I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine 

een do see 
The shining gates o' heaven, an' mine 

ain countree. 

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony- 

tinted, fresh, an' gay, 
The birdies warble blithely, for my 

Father made them sae ; 
But these sights and these soun's will 

as naething be to me. 
When I hear the angels singing in my 

ain countree. 

I've his gude word of promise that 

some gladsome day, the King 
To his ain royal palace his banished 

hame will bring : 
Wi' een an ^\•i' hearts runnin' owre, 

we shall see 
The King in his beauty in our ain 

countree. 

My sins hae been mony, an' my sor- 
rows hae been sair, 

But there they'll never vex me, nor 
be remembered mair; 



His bluid has made me white, his 
hand shall dry mine e'e, 

When he brings me hame at last, to 
my ain countree. 

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee 

birdie to its nest, 
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my 

Saviour's breast: 
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, 

worthless lambs like me. 
An' carries them liimsel' to his ain 

countree. 

He's faithfu' that hath promised, 

he'll surely come again, 
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what 

hour I dinna ken ; 
But he bids me still to wait, and ready 

aye to be 
To gang at any moment to my ain 

countree. 

So I'm watching aye an' singin' o' my 
hame as I wait. 

For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this 
side the shining gate; 

God gie his grace to ilk ane wha lis- 
tens noo to me. 

That we a' may gang in gladness to 
our ain countree. 



184 



DE VERE. 



Sir Aubrey De Vere. 



MISSPENT TIME. 

There is no remedy for time mis- 
spent ; 

No healing for the waste of idleness, 

Whose very languor is a punish- 
ment 

Heavier than active souls can feel or 
guess. 

O hours of indolence and discontent, 

Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not 
less 

Because I know this span of life was 
lent 

For lofty duties, not for selfishness, — 

Not to be whiled away in aimless 
dreams. 

But to improve ourselves, and serve 
mankind, 

Life and its choicest faculties were 
given. 

Man should be ever better than he 
seems. 

And shape his acts, anil discipline 
his mind. 

To walk adorning earth, with hope 
of heaven. 



COLUMBUS. 

He was a man whom danger could 

not daunt, |due; 

Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain sub- 
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain 

taunt, 
And steeled the path of honor to pur- 
sue; 
So, when by all deserted, still he 

knew 
How best, to soothe the heart-sick, 

or confront 
Sedition, schooled with equal eye to 

view 
The frowns of grief, and the base 

pangs of want. 
But when he saw that promised land 

arise 
In all its rare and bright varieties. 
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 
Then softening nature melted in his 

eyes; 
He knew his fame was full, and 

blessed his God; 
And fell upon his face, and kissed 

the virgin sod ! 



Aubrey Thomas De Vere. 



[From The Poetic Faculti/.] 
POWER OF POESY. 

My grief or mirth 

Attunes the earth, 
I harmonize the world ! 

Eemotest times 

And unfriendly climes 
In my song lie clasped and curled! 

When an arm too strong 

Does the poor man wrong 
I shout, and he liursts his chain: 

But at my command 

He drops the brand ; 
And I sing as he Hings the grain. 

The loved draw near, 

The lost appear; 



I sweeten the mourner's sigh: 

At my vesper lay 

The gafces of day 
Close back with harmony. 

No plains I reap, 

I fold no sheep 
Yet my home is on every shore: 

My fancies I wing 

AVith the plumes of spring. 
And voyage the round earth o'er. 

In the fight I wield 

Nor sword nor shield, 
But my voice like a lance makes way: 

No crown I bear, 

But the heads that wear 
Earth's crowns, my word obey. 

Through an age's night 

I fling' the light 



DE VERS. 



185 



Of my brow — An Argo soon 
From her pine-wood leaps 
On the unt racked deeps ; 

And tlie dark becomes as noon. 



THE ANGELS KISS HER. 

The angels kiss her while she sleeps, 
And leave their freshness on her 
breath : 
Star after star, descending, peeps 

Along her loose hair, dark as death, 
From his low nest the night-wind 
creeps, 
And o'er her bosom wandereth. 

'Tis morning: in their pure embrace 
The airs of dawn their playmate 
greet : 

Dusk fields expect their wonted grace. 
Those silken touches of swift feet: 

With songs the birds salute her face; 
And Sifence doth her voice entreat! 



BE y DING BETWEEN ME AND THE 
TAPER. 

Bending between me and the taper 
While o'er the harp her white hands 
strayed, 

The shadows of her waving tresses 
Above my hand were gently swayed . 

With every graceful movement wav- 
ing. 
I marked their undulating swell : 
I watched them while they met and 
parted . 
Curled close or widened, rose or fell. 

I laughed in trimtiph and in pleasure. 

So'strange the sport, so undesigned ! 

Her mother turned, and asked me 

gravely, 
" What thought was passing through 
my mind?" 

'Tis Love that blinds the eyes of 
mothers ! 
'Tis I.ove that makes the young 
maids fair! 



She touched my hand ; my rings she 
counted — 
Yet never felt the shadows there ! 

Keep, gamesome Love, beloved in- 
fant ! 

Keep ever thus all mothers blind: 
And make thy dedicated virgins 

In substance as in shadow kind ! 



HAPPY ARE THEY. 

Happy are they who kiss thee, morn 

and even, 
Parting the hair upon thy forehead 

white: 
For them the sky is bluer and more 

bright. 
And purer their thanksgivings rise to 

Heaven. 
Happy are they to whom thy songs 

are given; 
Happy are they on whom thy hands 

alight: 
And happiest they for whom thy 

prayers at night 
In tender piety so oft have striven. 
Away with vain regrets and selfish 

sighs — 
Even l,"dear friend, am lonely, not 

un blest; 
Permitted sometimes on that form to 

gaze. 
Or feel the light of those consoling 

eyes — 
If but a moment on my cheek it 

stays 
I know that gentle beam from all the 

rest! 



AFFLICTION. 

CouxT each aflliction, whether light 
or grave, 

God's messenger sent down to thee. 
Do thou 

With courtesy receive him: rise and 
bow: 

And, ere his shadow pass thy thresh- 
old, crave 



186 



DE VERB. 



Permission first his heavenly feet to 

lave. 
Tlien lay before hiiu all thou hast. 

Allow 
No cloud of passion to usurp thy 

brow, 
Or mar thy hospitality; no wave 
Of mortal tumult to obliterate 
The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief 

should be 
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; 
Confirming, cleansing, raising, mak- 
ing free ; 
Strong to consume small troubles; to 

connnend 
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, 

thoughts lasting to the end. 



BEATITUDE. 

Blessed is he who hath not trod the 

ways 
Of secular delights; nor learned the 

lore 
Which loftier minds are studious to 

abhor. 
Blessed is he who hath not sought the 

praise 
That perishes, tlie rapture that be- 
trays : 
Who hath not spent in Time's vain- 
glorious war 
Ilis youth: and found, a school-boy 

at fourscore. 
How fatal are tliose victories which 

raise 
Their iron trophies to a temple's 

height 
On trampled Justice: who desires not 

bliss. 
But peace ; and yet when summoned 

to the fight, 
Combats as one who combats in the 

sight 
Of God and of His angels, seeking 

this 
Alone, how best to glorify the Eight. 



THE AlOOD OF EXALTATIOy. 

What man can hear sweet sounds 

and dread to die ? 
O for a nuisic that might last forever ! 



Abounding from its sources like a 
river 

Whicli tln-ough the dim lawns streams 
eternally !' 

Virtue nnght then uplift her crest on 
high. 

ISpurning those myriad bonds that 
fret and grieve her: 

Then all the powers of hell would 
quake and quiver 

Before the ardors of her awful eye. 

Alas for man with all his high de- 
sires. 

And inward promptings fading day 
by day ! 

High-titled honor pants while it ex- 
pires. 

And clay-born gloiy turns again to 
clay. 

Low instincts last: our great resolves 
pass by 

Like winds whose loftiest ptean ends 
but in a sigh. 



ALL THINGS SWEET WHEN 
I'UIZED. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
Crumbling away beneath our very 

feet: 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flow- 
ing 
In current unperceived, because so 

fleet: 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet 

in sowing. 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped 

the wheat: 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet 

in blowing — 
And still, oh still, their dying breath 

is sM'eet. 
And sweet is youth, although it hath 

bereft us 
Of that whicli made our childhood 

sweeter still : 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath 

left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill: 
And sweet are all things, when we 

learn to prize them 
Not for their sake, but His who grants 

them or denies them ! 



DICKENS — DICKINSON. 



187 



Charles Dickens. 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old; 
Of right choice food are his meals, 1 
ween, 
In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the 
stones decayed, 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years 
have made 
Is a merry meal for him. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears 

no wings. 

And a staunch old heart has he! 

How closely he twineth, how tight he 

clings 

To his friend, the huge oak tree! 



And slyly he traileth along the 
ground, 
And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines and hugs 
around 
The rich mould of dead men's 
graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works 
decayed. 
And nations scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

.Shall fatten upon the past; 
For the stateliest building man can 
raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 



Charles M. Dickinson. 



THE CHILDnEN. 

When the lessons and tasks are all 
ended. 
And the school for the day is dis- 
missed. 
The little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kissed ; 
Oh, the little white arms that encir- 
cle 
My neck in their tender embrace! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heav- 
en. 
Shedding sunshine of love on my 
face! 

And when they are gone I sit dream- 
ing 
Of my childhood too lovely to last ; 
Of joy that my heart will remember. 
While it wakes to the pulse of the 
past, 



Ere the world and its wickedness 
made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin. 
When the glory of God was about me. 

And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak as a 
woman's. 
And the fountains of feeling will 
flow, 
•When I think of the patlis steep and 
stony. 
Where the feet of the dear ones 
must go ; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er 
them. 
Of the tempest of Fate blowing 
wild ; 
Oh ! there's nothing on earth half so 
holy 
As the innocent heart of a child! 



They are idols of hearts and of house- 
holds, 
They are angels of God in disguise; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tres- 
ses, ' 
His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
Those truants from home and from 
heaven — 
They have made me more manly 
and mild ; 
And I know now how Jesus could 
liken 
The kingdom of God to a child I 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have just enough 
shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun 
I would pray God to guard them 
from evil, 
But my prayer -would bound back 
to myself ; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the 
rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of 
knowledge. 
They have taught me the goodness 
of God : 



My heart is the dungeon of darkness. 
Where I shut them for breaking a 
rule : 

My frown is sutficient correction; 
My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the au- 
tumn. 
To traverse its threshold no more ; 
Ah! how 1 shall sigh for the dear 
ones. 
That meet me each morn at the 
door! 
I shall miss the "good-nights" and 
kisses, [glee. 

And the gush of their innocent 
The group on the green, and the 
flowers 
That are brought eveiy morning 
for me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at even. 
Their song in the school and the 
street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their 
voices. 
And the tread of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons of life are all ended, 
And death says " The school is dis- 
missed!" 
May the little ones gather around me 
To bid me "good-night" and be 
kissed ! 



Mary Lowe Dickinson. 



IF WE HAD BUT A DAY. 



We should fill the hours with the^ 
sweetest things, 
If we had but a day ; 
We should drink alone at the piu'est 
s])rings 
In our upward way ; 
We should love with a lifetime's love 
in an hour. 
If the hours were few ; 
We should rest, not for dreams, but 
for fresher power 
To be and to do. 



We should guide our wayward or 
wearied wills 
By the clearest light; 
We shoidd keep our eyes on the 
heavenly hills, 
If they lay in sight; 
We should trample the pride and the 
discontent 
Beneath our feet ; 
We should take whatever a good 
God sent, 
With a trust complete. 



We should waste no moments in 
weak regret, 
If the day were but one ; 
If what we remember and M'hat we 
forget 
Went out with tlie sim ; 



We should be from our clamorous 
selves set free, 
To work or to pray, 
And to be what the Father would 
have us be. 
If we had but a day. 



Sydney Thompson Dobell, 



AMERICA. 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! 

Oye 
Wlio north or soutli, on east or west- 
ern lands, 
Native to noble sounds, say truth for 

truth. 
Freedom for freedom, love for love, 

and God 
For God. O ye, who in eternal 

youth 
Speak with a living and creative flood 
This universal Englisli, and do stand 
Its breatliing book; live worthy of 

that grand 
Heroic utterance, — parted, yet a 

whole, 
Far, yet unsevered, — cliildren brave 

and free 
Of tlie great mother-tongue, and ye 

shall be 
Lords of an empire wide as Sliakes- 

peare's soul. 
Sublime as Milton's immemorial 

theme. 
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and 

fair as Spenser's dream. 



HOME, WOUNDED. 

Stay wherever you will. 

By the mount or imder the hill. 

Or down by the little river: 

Stay as long as you please. 

Give me only a bud from the trees. 

Or a blade of grass in morning dew. 

Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 

I could look on it forever. 



Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, 
Wlieel, wheel through the shadow; 
There must be odors round the pine. 
There must be balm of breathing 

kine. 
Somewhere down in the meadow. 
Must I choose? Then anchor me 

there 
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where 
The larch is snooding her floweiy 

hair 
With wreaths of morning shadow. 
Among the thickest hazels of tlie 

brake 
Perchance some nightingale doth 

shake [song; 

His featliers, and the air is fidl of 
In those old days when I was young 

and strong. 
He used to sing on yonder garden tree, 
Beside the nursery. 

Along my life my length I lay, 
I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 
I am warm with the suns that have 

long since set, 
I am warm with the sunnners that are 

not yet. 
And like one who dreams and dozes 
Softly afloat on a sunny sea. 
Two worlds are whispering over me. 
And tliere blows a wind of roses 
From the backward sliore to the shore 

before, 
From the shore before to the back- 
ward shore. 
And like two clouds that meet and pour 
Each through each, till core in core 
A single self reposes, 
The nevermore with the evermore 
Above me mingles and closes. 



190 



DOB SON. 



Austin Dobson. 



THE CHILD MUSICIAX. 

He had played for liis lordship's 
levee, 
He had played for her ladyship's 
whim, 
Till the poor little head was heavy, 
And the poor little brain would 
swim. 

And the face grew peaked and eerie, 

And the large eyes strange and 

bright, 

And they said, — too late, — "He is 

weary ! 

He shall rest for at least to-night ! '' 

But at dawn, when the birds were 
waking, 
As they watched in the silent 
room. 
With the sound of a strained cord 
breaking, 
A something snapped in the gloom. 

'Twas a string of his violoncello. 
And they heard him stir in his bed : 

" Make room for a tired little fellow. 
Kind God!" was the last that he 
said. 



THE PRODIGALS. 

" Princes! — and you, most valorous 

Nobles and barons of all degrees ! 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 

Prodigals driven of destinies ! 

Nothing we ask of gold or fees ; 
Harry us not with the hounds, we 
pray; 

Lo! for the surcote's hem we seize, 
Give us, ah ! give us, — but yester- 
day! 

"Dames most delicate, amorous! 

Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
Beggars are we that pray thee thus. 

Beggars outworn of miseries! 

Nothing we ask of. the things that 
please ; 
Weaiy are we, and old, and gray : 



Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp 
your knees, — 
Give us, ah! give us, — but yesterday! 

" Damosels, dames, be piteous!" 
(But the dames rode fast by the 
roadway trees. ) 
" Hear us, O knights magnanimous I " 
(But the knights pricked on in 

their panoplies.) 
Nothing they gat of hope or ease. 
But only to beat on the breast, and 
say,— 
"Life we drank to the diegs and 

lees; 
Give us. all! give us, — but yester- 
day!" 

EXVOV. 

Youth, take heed to the jirayer of 
these ! 
Many there be by the dusty way, — 
Many that cry to the rocks and seas, 
"Give us, ah! give us, — but yes- 
terday ! ' ' 



"FAREWELL, RENOWN!" 

Farewell, Renown! Too fleeting 

flower, 

That grows a year to last an hour ; — 

Prize of the race's dust and heat. 

Too often trodden luider feet, — 

Why should 1 court your "barren 

dower"? 

Nay; had I Dryden's angry power. — 
The thews of Ben, — the wind of 
Gower, — 
Not less my voice should still repeat 
' ' Farewell, Renown ! ' ' 

FarcM'ell !— Because the Muses' bower 

Is filled with rival brows that lower; — 

Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, 

The Bard, that " pays," must please 

the street; — 

But most . . . because the grapes are 

sour, — 

Farewell, Renown ! 



DODGE. 



191 



Mary Mapes Dodge. 



THE HUMAN TIE. 

"As if life were not sacred, too." 

George Eliot. 

" Speak tenderly! For he is dead," 
we say ; 
"With gracious hand smootli all 
liis rougliened past, 
And fullest measure of reward 
forecast, 

Forgetting naught that gloried his 
brief day." 

Yet of the brother, who, along our 
way, 
Prone with his burdens, heart- 
worn in the strife, 
Totters before us — how we search 
his life. 

Censure, and sternly punish, while 
we may. 

Oh, weary are the paths of Earth, 
and hard ! 

And living hearts alone are ours to 
guard. 

At least, begrudge not to the sore dis- 
traught 

The reverent silence of our pitying 
thought. 

Life, too, is sacred; and he best for- 
gives 

Who says : " He errs, but — tenderly ! 
He lives." 



MY WIXDOW-IVY. 

OvEU my window the ivy climbs. 
Its roots are in homely jars: 

But all the day it looks at the sun. 
And at night looks out at the stars. 

Tlie dust of the room may dim its 
green. 
But I call to the breezy air: 
" Come in, come in, good friend of 
mine ! 
And make my window fair." 

So the ivy thrives from morn to morn. 
Its leaves all turned to the light; 



And it gladdens my soul ■with its 
tender green. 
And teaches me day and night. 

What though my lot is in lowly place, 
And my spirit behind the bars; 

All tlie long day I may look at the 
sun, 
And at night look out at the stars. 

What though the dust of earth would 
dim? 
There's a glorious outer air 
Tliat will sweei3 through my soul if I 
let it in, 
And make it fresh and fair. 

Dear God ! let me grow from day to 
day. 
Clinging and sunny and bright! 
Though planted in shade. Thy m in- 
dow is near. 
And my leaves may turn to the 
light. 



DEATH IX LIFE. 

She sitteth there a moiu'uer. 

With her dead before her eyes ; 
Flushed with the hues of life is he 

And quiciv are his replies. 
Often his warm hand touches hers; 

Brightly liis glances fall; 
And yet, in this wide world, is she 

The loneliest of all. 

Some mom-ners feel their dead return 

In dreams, or thoughts at even ; 
Ah, well for them their best-beloved 

Are faithful still in heaven! 
But woe to her whose best beloved. 

Though dead, still lingers near; 
So far away when by her side, 

He cannot see nor hear. 

Witli heart intent, he comes, he goes 

In busy ways of life. 
His gains and chances counteth he; 

His hours with joy are rife. 



192 



BODGE. 



Careless he greets her day by clay, 
Nor thinks of words once said, — 

Oh, would that love could live again, 
Or her heart give up its dead! 



HEART-ORACLES. 

By the motes do we know where the 
sunbeam is slanting; 
Through the hindering stones, 
speaks the soul of the brook; 

Past the rustle of leaves we press 
into the stillness; 
Through darkness and void to the 
Pleiads we look; 

One bird-note at dawn with the night- 
silence o'er us. 

Begins all the morning's munificent 
chorus. 

Through sorrow come glimpses of 
infinite gladness; 
Through grand discontent mounts 
the spirit of youth; 

Loneliness foldeth a wonderful lov- 
ing; 
The lireakers of Doubt lead the 
great tide of Truth: 

And dread and grief-haunted the 
shadowy poital 

That shuts from our vision the splen- 
dor immortal. 



THE CHILD AND THE SEA. 

One summer day, when birds flew 
high. 

1 saw a child step into the sea; 
It glowed and sparkled at her touch 

And softly plashed about her 
knee. 
It held her lightly with its strength. 

It kissed and kissed her silken hair ; 
It swayed with tenderness to know 

A little child was in its care. 

She, gleeful, dipped her pretty arms. 
And caught the sparkles in her 
hands ; 

I lieard her laughter, as she soon 
Came skipping up the sunny sands. 



" Is this the -cruel sea ? " I thought, 
" The merciless, the awful sea ? " — 

Now hear the answer soft and true. 
That rippled over the beach to me : 

•'Shall not the sea, in the sun, be 
glad 
When a child doth come to play ? 
Had it been in the storm-time, wliat 
could I, 
The sea, but bear her away — 
Bear lier away on my foaming crest. 
Toss her and hurry her to her rest '.' 

" Be it life or death, God ruleth me; 

And he lovetli every soul : 
I've an earthly shore and a heavenly 
shore. 
And toward them both I roll ; 
Shining and beautiful, lioth are 
they, — 
And a little child will go God's 
way. ' ' 



THE STARS. 

They wait all day unseen by us, un- 
felt; 
Patient they bide behind the day's 

full glare; 
And we" who watched the dawn 
when they were there. 
Thought we had seen them in the 

daylight melt. 
While the slow sun upon the earth- 
line knelt. 
Because the teeming sky seemed 

void and bare, 
W^hen we explored it through the 
dazzled air, 
^Ve had no thought that there all 

day they dwelt. 
Yet were they over us, alive and true. 
In the vast shades far up above the 

blue, — 
The brooding shades beyond our 
daylight ken — 
Serene and patient in their con- 
scious light 
Ready to sparkle for our joy again, — 
The eternal jewels of the short- 
lived night. 



Julia C. R. Dorr. 



WHAT SHE THOUGHT. 

Mahion showed me her wedding 
gown 
And her veil of gossamer lace to- 
night, 
And the orange-blooms that to-mor- 
row morn 
Shall fade in her soft hair's golden 
light. 
But Philip came to the open door: 
Like the heart of a wild-rose 
glowed her cheek, 
And they wandered off through the 
garden paths 
So blest that they did not care to 
speak. 

I wonder how it seems to be loved : 
To know you are fair in some 
one's eyes; 
Tliat upon some one your beauty 
dawns 
Every day as a new surprise ; 
To know, that, whether you weep or 
smile. 
Whether your mood be grave or 
gay, 
Somebody thinks you, all the while. 
Sweeter than any flower of May. 

I wonder what it would be to love: 
That, I think, would be sweeter 
far. 
To know that one out of all the world 
Was lord of your life, your king, 
your star. 
They talk of love's sweet tumult and 
pain: 
I am not sure that I understand. 
Though, — a thrill ran down to my 
fmger-tips 
Once when, — somebody, — touched 
my hand ! 

I wonder what it would be to dream 

Of a child that might one day be 

your own: [part. 

Of the hidden springs of your life a 

Flesh of your flesh, and bone of 

your bone. 



Marion stooped one day to kiss 
A beggar's babe with a tender 
grace ; 
While some sweet thought, like a 
prophecy, 
Looked from her pure Madonna 
face. 

1 wonder what it must be to think 
To-morrow will be your wedding- 
day. 
And you, in the radiant sunset glow 
Down fragrant flowery paths will 
stray. 
As Marion does this blessed night. 
With Philip, lost in a blissful 
dream. 
Can she feel his heart through the 
silence beat? 
Does he see her eyes in the star- 
light gleam ? 

Questioning thus, my days go on ; 

But never an answer comes to me : 
All love's mysteries, sweet as strange, 

Sealed away from my life must be. 
Yet still I dream, O lieart of mine! 

Of a beautiful city that lies afar; 
And there, some time, I shall drop 
the mask. 

And be shapely and fair as others 
are. 



AT THE LAST. 

Wii-L the day ever come, I wonder. 

When I shall be glad to know 
That my hands will be folded under 

The next white fall of the snow ? 
To know that when next the clover 

Wooeth the wandering bee, 
Its crimson tide will driift over 

All that is left of me ? ' 

Shall I ever be tired of living. 
And be glad to go to mv rest, 

With a cool and fragrant lily 
Asleep on my silent breast ? 



194 



DORR. 



Will my eyes grow weary of seeing, 
As the hours pass, one by one. 

Till I long for the hush and the dark- 
ness 
As I never longed for tlie sun ? 

God knoweth ! Some time, it may be, 

I shall smile to hear you say : 
"Dear heart! she will not waken 

At the dawn of another day ! " 
And some time, love, it may be, 

I shall whisper under my breath : 
'' The happiest hour of my life, dear. 

Is this, — the hour of my death ! ' ' 



WHAT NEED.' 

" What need has the singer to sing? 

And why should your poet to-day 
His pale little garland of i^oesy bring. 

On the altar to lay ? 
High-priests of song the harp-strings 

swept 
Ages before he smiled or wept'! " 

What need have the roses to bloom ? 

And why do the tall lilies grow ? 

And wliy do the violets shed their 

l)erfume 

When night-winds breathe low ? 

They are no whit more bright and 

fair ~ I air! 

Than flowers that breathed in Eden's 

What need have the stars to shine 
on ? 
Or the clouds to grow red in the 
west, 
When the sun, like a king, from the 
fields he has won. 
Goes grandly to rest ? 
No brighter they than stars and skies 
That greeted Eve's sweet, wonder- 



mg eyes 



What need has the eagle to soar 

So proudly straight up to the sun '? 
Or the robin such jubilant music to 
pour 
When day is begun ? 
The eagles soared, the robins sung, 
A3 high, as sweet, when earth was 
young ! 



AVhat need, do you ask me ? Each 

day 
Hath a song and a prayer of its 

own. 
As each June hath its crown of fresh 

roses, each May 
Its bright emerald throne! 
Its own high thought each age shall 

stir. 
Each needs its own interpreter ! 

And thou, O, my poet, sing on I 

Sing on until love shall grow old; 
Till patience and faith their last tri- 
umphs have won. 
And truth is a tale that is told! 
Doubt not, thy song shall still be new 
While life endures and God is true! 



PERADVENTURE. 

I AM thinking to-night of the little 
child 
That lay on my breast three sum- 
mer days. 
Then swiftly, silently, dropped from 
sight, 
W^hile my soul cried out in sore 
amaze. 

It is fifteen years ago to-niglit; 

Somewliere, I know, he has lived 

them through. 

Perhaps with never a thought or 

dream |knew! 

Of the mother-heart he never 

Is he yet but a babe ? or has he grown 
To be like his brothers, fair and 
tall. 
With a clear bright eye, and a spring- 
ing step. 
And a voice that rings like a bugle 



I loved him. The rose in his waxen 
hand 
Was wet with the dew of my fall- 
ing tears; 
I have kept the thought of my baby's 
grave 
Througli all the length of these 
changeful years. 



Yet the love I gave him was not like 
that 
I give to-day to my other boys, 
Who have grown beside me, and 
turned to me 
In all their griefs and in all their 
joys. 

Do you think he knows it ? I won- 
der nuicli 
If the dead are passionless, cold 
and dumb; 
If into the calm of the deathless 
years 
No thrill of a human love may 
come ! 

Perhaps sometimes from the upper 
air 
He has seen me walk with his 
brothers three; 
Or felt in the tender twilight hour 
The breath of the kisses they gave 
to me ! 

Over his birthright, lost so soon, 
Perhaps he has sighed as the swift 
years flew; 
O child of my heart! you shall find 
somewhere 
The love that on earth you never 
knew 1 



THOU KNOW EST. 

Thou knowest, O my Father! Why 
should I 
Weary high heaven with restless 
prayers and tears ! 
Thou knowest all ! My heart's unut- 
tered cry 
Hath soared beyond the stars and 
reached Thine ears. 

Thou knowest.— ah. Thou knowest! 
Then what need, 
O, loving God, to tell Thee o'er 
and o'er. 
And with persistent iteration plead 
As one who crieth at some closed 
door '? 



"Tease not!" we mothers to our 
children say. — 
" Oiu' wiser love w ill grant what e'er 
is best." 
,Shall we. Thy children, run to Thee 
alway. 
Begging for this and that in wild 



I dare not clamor at the heavenly 
gate. 
Lest I should lose the high, sweet 
strains within; 
O, Love Divine! I can but stand and 
wait 
Till Perfect Wisdom bids me en- 
ter in ! 



FIVE. 

"BvT a week is so long! " he said, 
AVith a toss of his curly head. 

" One, two, three, four, five, six. 
seven ! — 

Seven Avliole days ! Why, in six you 
know 

(You said it yourself, — you told me 
so) 

The great God up in heaven 

Made all the earth and the seas and 
skies, 

The trees and the birds and the but- 
terflies ! 

IIow can I wait for mv seeds to 



' ' But a month is so long ! " he 

said. 
With a droop of his boyish head. 
"Hear me count, — one, two, three, 

four, — 
Four whole weeks, and three days 

more ; 
Thirty-one days, and each will creep 
As the shadows crawl over yonder 

steep. 
Thirty-one nights, and I shall lie 
Watching the stars climb up the sky.' 
How cani Mait till a month is o'er?" 

"But a year is so long!" he said. 
Uplifting his bright young head. 



"All the seasons must come and go 
Over the hill with footsteps slow, — 
Autumn and winter, summer and 

spring; 
Oh, for a bridge of gold to fling 
Over the chasm deep and wide, 
That I might cross to the other side. 
Where she is waiting, — my love, my 

bride!" 

" Ten years may be long," he said, 
Slow raising his stately head, 
" But there's much to win, there is 

much to lose; 
A man must labor, a man nuist 

choose. 
And he must be strong to wait! 
The years may be long, but who 

would wear 
The crown of honor, must do and 

dare ! 
No time has he to toy with fate 
Who would climb to manhood's high 

estate!" 

" Ah ! life is not long! " he said. 
Bowing his grand white head. 

" One, two, three, four, five, six, 
seven! 

Seven times ten are seventy. 

Seventy years ! as swift their flight 

As swallows cleaving the morning 
light. 

Or golden gleams at even. 

Life is short as a simimer night, — 

How long, O God ! is eternity ? " 



AT DAWN. 

At dawn when the jubilant morning 
broke. 
And its glory flooded the mountain 
side, 
I said, " 'Tis eleven years to-day, 
Eleven years since my darling 
died!" 



And then I turned to my household 
ways. 

To my daily tasks, without, within, 
As happily busy all the day 

As if my darling had never been ! 

As if she had never lived, or died! 
Yet when they buried her out of 
my sight, 
I thought the sun had gone down at 
noon. 
And the day could never again be 
bright. 

Ah, well ! As the swift years come 
and go. 

It will not be long ere I shall lie 
Somewhere under a bit of turf. 

With my pale hands folded quietly. 

And then some one who has loved 
me well, — 
Perhaps the one wlio has loved me 
best, — 
Will say of me as I said of her, 
"She has been just so many years 
at rest," — 

Then turn to the living loves again, 
To the busy life, without, within. 

And the day will go on from dawn to 
dusk, 
Even as if 1 had never been ! 

Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must 
still be so! 
The roses will bloom, and the stars 
will shine. 
And the soft green grass creep still 
and slow. 
Sometime over a grave of mine, — 

And over the grave in your liearts as 
well ! 

Ye cannot hinder it if ye would ; 
And I, — ah! I shall be wiser then, — 

I would not hinder it if I could! 




Joseph Rodman Drake. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom from her mountain 
heiglit 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there; 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure, celestial wliite 
With streakings of the morning 

light; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle-bearer doWn, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
To hear the tempest-trumi>ings loud. 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the 
storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of 

heaven ; 
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free. 
To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
To ward away the battle-stroke. 
And bid its blendings shine afar. 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly. 
The sign of hope and triumph high, 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 
And the long line comes gleaming 

on; " 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born gtories burn, 



And, as bis springing steps advance, 

Catch war and vengeance from the 
glance ; 

And when the cannon-mouthings 
loud 

Heave in wild wreaths the battle- 
shroud. 

And gory sabres rise and fall, 

Like shoots of flame on midnight's 
pall; 

Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall sink be- 
neath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied 

sail. 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broad-side's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and 

thee. 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and 
home. 
By angel hands to valor given ; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
And all thy hues were born in 
heaven. 
For ever float that standard sheet ! 
Where breathes the foe but falls 
before us, 
AVith Freedom's soil beneath our 
feet, 
And Freedom's banner streaming 
o'er us ? 



198 



DBA YTON — DR UMMOND. 



Michael Drayton. 



THE PARTIXG. 

SiNX'E there's no help, coine, let us 
kiss and part; 
Nay, I have done, you get no more 
of nie; 
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my 
heart 
That thus so cleanly 1 myself can 
free ; 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our 
vows ; 
And when we meet at any time 
again. 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 



That we one jot of former love re- 
tain. — 
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest 
breath. 
When his pulse failing, Passion 
speechless lies. 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 
death, 
And Innocence is closing up his 
eyes. 
Now if thou wouldst, when all have 

given him over, 
From death to life thou mighfst him 
yet recover. 



William Drummond. 



DESPITE ALL. 

I KNOW that all beneath the moon 

decays ; 
And what tjy mortals in this world is 

brought, 
In time's great periods shall return 

to nought ; 
That fairest states have fatal nights 

and days. 
I know that all the Muses' heavenly 

lays. 
With toil of sprite which are so dear- 
ly bought, 
As idle sounds, of fev/ or none are 

sought ; 
That there is nothing lighter than 

vain praise. 
I know frail beauty's like the purple 

floM'er 
To which one morn oft birth and 

death affords; 
That love a jarring is of mind's 

accords. 
Where sense and will bring under 

reason's power: 
Know Avhat I list, this all cannot me 

move, [love. 

But that, alas ! I both nuist write and 



WH4T WE TOIL FOR. 

Of mortal glory O soon darkened 

ray! 
O wiim^d joys of man, more swift 

than wind! 
O fond desires, which in our fancies 

stray ! 
O traitorous hopes, which do our 

judgments blind! 
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away 
Which dazzle did each eye, delight 

each mind. 
And, with that sun from whence it 

came combined, 
Now makes more radiant Heaven's 

eternal day. 
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks 

with tears; 
Let widowed Music only roar and 

groan ; 
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and 

mount the spheres. 
For dwelling-place on earth for thee 

is none! 
Death hath thy temple razed. Love's 

empire foiled, 
The world of honor, worth, and 

sweetness spoiled. 





DRYDEN. 



199 



John Dryden. 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. 
AN ODE IX HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

'TwAS at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne: 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Tlieir brows with roses and with myitles bound ; 
(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais by his side,, 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair"! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORrS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus placed on high, 
Amid the tuneful choir. 
With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. • 
The song began from .Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love. ) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
When he to fair Olympia pressed: 
And while he sought her snowy breast: 
Then round her slender waist he curled. 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty soimd, 
A present deity! thev shout around': 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravislied ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



"m 



CHORUS. 

With ravished ears 
The monarch liears, 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake tlie spheres. 

The praise of Bacclius tlien the sweet musician sung. 
Of Bacchus — ever fair and ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound thetrumpets ; beat the drums : 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face; 
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes ! he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings' are a treasure. 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure. 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, 

Kich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; 

Fought all his battles o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And, while he^ieaven and earth defied. 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse 
Soft pity to infuse: 
He sung Darius, great and good ; 

By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
Fallen from his high estate, 

And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his foi'mer bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various tiu'ns of chance below; 
And, now and then a sigh he stole ; 
And tears began to flow. 



DRYJJEN. 



201 



CHORUS. 

Revolving; in his altered soul 

The vaiious turns of chance below ; 

And, now an^J then, a sigh he stole; 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled, to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 
Honor but an empty l)ut)ble; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying: 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

CHORUS. 

The prince, imabled to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



Now strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleeji asunder, 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head: 
As awaked from the dead. 
And amazed, lie siares around. 
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries, 
See the furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair! 
And the spai-kles that flash from their eyes ! 



202 



DRY DEN. 




Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain, 
Inglorious on the plain: * 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
The princes applaud with a furious joy : 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way. 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, tired another Troy! 



And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! 



Thus long ago, 
Ere lieaving bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute. 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down. 



GKAND CHOKUS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 

And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies. 

She drew an angel down. 



DRYDEN. 



203 



A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

Fkom harmony, from heavenly hannony, 

This universal frame began: 

When nature underneath a hea-i 

Of jarring atoms lay. 
And could not heave her head. 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

"Arise, ye more than dead." 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
In order to their stations leap. 
And 3Iusic's power obey. 
From hai-mony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony. 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
The diapason closing full in Man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
When Jubal struck the corded shell. 
His listening brethren stood around. 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell. 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms, 
With shrill notes of anger, 

And mortal alarms. 
The double, double, double beat 

Of the thundering drum 

Cries, " Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins complain 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation. 
Depth of pains, and height of passion. 
For the fair disdainful dame. 
But oh! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach, 
The sacred organ's praise ? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
To mend the choirs above. 




204 



DRTDEN. 



Orpheus could lead the savage race ; 
And trees uprooted left their place, 

Sequacious of the lyre: 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher 
"When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
An angel heard, and straight appeared 

Mistaking earth for heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

As from the power of sacred lays 
The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blessed above ; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall luitune the §ky. 



UNDER THE PORTIIAIT OF JOHN 
MIL TON. 

[Prefixed to '" Paradise Lost."] 

Three poets in three distant ages 
born, 

Greece, Italy, and England, did 
adorn. 

The first in loftiness of thought sur- 
passed ; 

The next in majesty; in both the 
last, 

The force of nature could no further 
go; 

To make a third, she joined the 
former two. 



YFrom Beligio Laid.] 
THE LIGHT OF REASON. 

Dim as the borrowed beams of moon 
and stars 

To lonely, weary, wandering travel- 
lers. 

Is reason to the soul: and as on high. 

Those rolling fires discover but the 
sky. 

Not light us here; so Reason's glim- 
mering ray 

Was lent, not to assure our doubtful 
way, 



But guide us upward to a better day. 

And as these nightly tapers disappear, 

AVhen day's bright lord ascends our 
hemisphere; 

So i^ale grows Reason at Religion's 
sight; 

So dies, and so dissolves in supernat- 
ural light. 



[F7-oni Religio Laid.] 
THE BIBLE. 

If on the book itself we cast our 
view, 

Concuirent heathens prove the story 
true ; 

The doctrine, miracles; whicli must 
convince. 

For Heaven in them appeals to hu- 
man sense: 

And though they prove not, they con- 
firm the cause. 

When what is taught agrees with na- 
ture's laws. 
Then for the style, majestic and 
divine. 

It speaks no less than God in every 
line: 

Commanding words, whose force is 
still the same 

As the first fiat that produced our 
frame. 



All faiths beside, or did by arms as- 
cend, 

Or sense indulged has made mankind 
their friend ; 

This only doctrine does our lusts op- 
pose : 

Unfed by nature's soil, in which it 
grows ; 

Cross to our interests, curbing sense 
and sin; 

Oppressed without, and undermined 
within, 

It thrives through i)ain; its own tor- 
mentors tires; 

And with a stubborn patience still 
aspires. 

To what can Keason such effects as- 
sign 

Transcending nature, but to laws 
divine ? 

Which in that sacred volume are 
contained; 

Sufficient, clear, and for that use or- 
dained. 




DRY DEN. 



[From lieligio Laici-I 
JUDGMENT IN STUDYING IT. 

The unlettered Christian, who be- 
lieves in gross, 

Plods on to heaven, and ne'er is at a 
loss: 

For the strait-gate would be made 
straiter yet. 

Were none admitted there but men 
of wit. 

The few by nature formed, with 
learning fraught, 

Born to instruct, as others to be 
taught. 

Must study well the sacred page : and 
see 

Which doctrine, this or that, doth 
best agree 

With the whole tenor of the work di- 
vine ; 

And plainliest points to Heaven's re- 
vealed design : 

Which exposition flows from genuine 
sense ; 

And which is forced by wit and elo- 
quence. 



\_From Helit/io LnicL] 

THE AVOIDANCE OF RELIGIOUS 

DISPUTES. 

A THOUSAND daily sects rise up and 

die; 
A thousand more the perished race 

supply; 
So all we make of Heaven's discov- 
ered will. 
Is, not to have it, or to use it ill. 
The danger's much the same; on 

several shelves 
If others wreck us, or we wreck our- 
selves. 
What then remains, but, waiving 

each extreme, 
The tide of ignorance and pride to 

stem ? 
Neither so rich a treasure to forego, 
Nor proudly seek beyond our power 

to know: 
Faith is not built on disquisitions 

vain: 
The things we must believe are few 

and plain : 
But since men will believe more than 

they nee J, 
And every man will make himself a 

creed, 
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest 

way 
To learn what unsusi^ected ancients 

say: 
For 'tis not likely we should higher 

soar 
In search of Heaven, than all the 

Church before : 
Nor can we be deceived, unless we 

see Igree. 

The Scripture and the Fathers disa- 
If after all they stand suspected still, 
(For no man's faith depends upon 

his will;) 
'Tis some relief, that points no! 

clearly known. 
Without much hazard may be let 

alone : 
And after hearing what our Church 

can say, 
If still our reason runs another way. 
That private reason 'tis more just to 

curb, [disturb. 

Than by disputes the public ijeace 



206 



DRY DEN. 



For points obscure are of small use 


A future cordial for a fainting mind; 


to learn; 


For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped 


But common quiet is mankind's con- 


to find. 


cern. 


Each in his turn, the rich might 




freely come. 
As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas 






home. 


[From Ftconnra.] 


As to some holy house the afflicted 


A WIFE. 


came. 




The hunger-starved, the naked and 


A AViFE as tender, and as true 


the lame; 


withal, 


Want and disease both fled before 


As the first -woman was before her 


her name. 


fall: 


For zeal like hers her servants were 


Made for the man, of whom she was 


too slow ; 


a part ; 


She was the first, where need required. 


Made to attract his eyes, and keep 


to go; 


his heart. 


Herself the foundress and attendant 


A second Eve, but by no crime ac- 


too. 


cursed ; 




As beauteous, not as brittle as the 




first. 




Had she been first, still Paradise had 


[From Eleonnra.] 


been, 


BEAUTIFUL DEATH. 


And death had found no entrance by 




her sin. 


As precious gums are not for last- 


So she not only had preserved from ill 


ing fire. 


Her sex and ours, but lived their pat- 


They but perfume the temple, and 


tern still. 


expire: 




So was she soon exhaled and van- 




ished hence ; 






A short sweet odor of avast expense. 


[From Elcnnora.'] 


She vanished, we can scarcely say 


CHAIUTY. 


she died: 




For but a now did heaven and earth 


Want passed for merit at her open 


divide: 


door: 


She passed serenely with a single 


Heaven saw, he safely might increase 


breath ; 


his poor, 


This moment perfect health, the next 


And trust their sustenance with her 


was death : 


so well. 


One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; 


As not to be at charge of miracle. 


So little penance needs, when souls 


None could be needy, whom she saw 


are almost pure. 


or knew ; 


As gentle dreams our waking thoughts 


All in the compass of her sphere she 


pursue ; 


drew. 


Or, one dream passed, we slide into a 


He, who could touch her garment, was 


new ; 


as sure. 


So close they follow, such wild order 


As the first Christians of the apostles' 


keep. 


cure. 


We think ourselves awake, and are 


The distant heard, by fame, her pious 


asleep : 


deeds, 


So softly death succeeded life in her: 


And laid her up for their extremest 


She did but di'eam of heaven, and she 


needs ; 


was there. 



DRY DEN. 



207 



No pains she suffered, nor expired 

with noise; 
Her soul ■ was whispered out witli 

God's still voice; 
As an old friend is beckoned to a 

feast, 
And treated like a long-familiar 

guest. 
He took her as he found, but found 

her so. 
As one in hourly readiness to go: 
E'en on that day, in all her trim pre- 
pared ; 
As early notice she from heaven had 

heard ; 
And some descending courier from 

above [move ; 

Had given her timely warning to re- 
Or counselled her to dress the nuptial 

room. 
For on that night the bridegroom was 

to come. 
He kept his hour, and found her 

where she lay 
Clothed all in white, the livery of the 

day; 
Scarce had she sinned in thought, or 

word , or act ; 
Unless omissions were to pass for 

fact: 
That hardly death a consequence 

could draw, 
To make her liable to nature's law. 
And, that she died, we only have to 

show 
The mortal part of her she left be- 
low: 
The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she 

went, 
Looked like translation through the 

firmament. 



\_From The Character of a Good Parson.] 
THE MODEL rUEACHER, ^ 

Yet of his little he had some to 

spare. 
To feed the famished and to clothe 

the l)are : 
For mortified he was to that degree, 
A poorer than himself he would not 

see. 



True priests, he said, and preachers 

of the woi'd, 
Were only stewards of their sovereign 

Lord; 
Nothing was theirs; but all the public 

store : 
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor. 

The proud he tamed, the penitent 

he cheered ; 
Nor to rebuke the rich offender 

feared ; 
His preaching much, but more his 

practice wrought 
(A living sermon of the truths he 

taught); 
For this by rules severe his life he 

squared, 
That all might see the doctrines 

which they heard. 
For priests, he said, are patterns for 

the rest; 
(The gold of heaven, who bear the 

God impressed); 
But when the precious coin is kept 

unclean. 
The sovereign's image is no longer 

seen. 
If they be foul on which the people 

trust, 
Well may the baser brass contract a 

rust. 



[^From Absalom and AchitopheL] 
THE WIT. 

A FIERY soul, which, working out its 

way, 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay, 
And o'er-informed the tenement of 

clay. 
A daring pilot in extremity; 
Pleased with the danger, when the 

waves went high 
He sought the storms ; but, for a calm 

unfit, 
Would steer too nigh the sands to 

boast his wit. 
Great wits are sure to madness near 

allied. 
And thin partitions do their bounds 

divide. 




208 



D UNBA R — EAS TMA N. 



William Dunbar. 



ALL EARTHLY JOY RETURNS IX PAIN. 



Have mind that age aye follows 

youth ; 
Death follows life with gaping mouth, 
Devouring fruit and flowering grain 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

Came never yet May so fresh and 

green, 
But January came as wud and keen ; 



Was never such drout but ance came 

rain; 
All earthly joy returns in pain, 



Since earthly joy abydis never. 
Work for the joy that lasts for- 
ever; 
For other joy is all but vain : 
All earthly joy returns in jxiin. 



Charles Gamage Eastman. 



A SNOW-STORM. 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter 
time, 
As cold as it ever can be; 
The roar of the blast is heard like 
the chime 
Of the waves of an angry sea. 
The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings 

to-night; 
And over the sky from south to north. 
Not a star is seen as the wind comes 
forth 
In the strength of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — 
all day 
As it never came down before ; 
And over the hills, at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet, or more ; 
The fence was lost, and the wall of 

* stone; 
The windows blocked and the well- 
curbs gone; 
The haystack had grown to a moun- 
tain lift, 
And the wood-pile looked like a 
monster drift, 
As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 
While the air grows sharp and chill. 



And the warning roar of a fearful 
blow 
Is heard on the distant hill; 

And the Norther, see! on the moun- 
tain peak 

In his breath how the old trees writhe 
and shriek! 

He shouts on the plain, ho ho! ho ho! 

He drives from his nostrils the blind- 
ing snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found 

abroad, 

In the drifts and the freezing air, 

Lies a shivering dog, in the field, by 

the road. 

With the snow in his shaggy hair. 

He shuts his eyes to the wind and 

growls ; 
He lifts his head, and moans and 
howls; I sleet, 

Then crouching low, from the cutting 
His nose is pressed on his quivering 
feet — 
Pray what does the dog do there ? 

A farmer came from the village plain, 
But he lost the travelled way ; 

And for hom-s he trod with might 
and main 
A path for his horse and sleigh; 



ELIOT. 



200 



But colder still the cold winds blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts 

grew, 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan 

brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered 

down, 
Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied 
snort, 
She plunged in the drifting snow. 
While her master urged, till his 
breath grew short. 
With a word and a gentle blow; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs 

were tight; 
His hands were numb and had lost 

their might: 
So he wallowed back to his half-filled 

sleigh. 
And strave to shelter himself till day. 
With his coat and butfalo. 

II(^ has given the last faint jerk of 

the rein, 
To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast 

in vain 
For help in his master's need. 
For awhile he strives with a wistful 

cry 
To catch a glance from his drowsy 

eye, 



And wags his tail when the rude winds 

flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 
And whines that he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down and the storm 
is o'er — 
'Tis the hour of midnight past; 
The old trees writhe and bend no more 

In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
The silent moon with her peaceful 

light 
Looks down on the hills with snow 

all white. 
And the giant shadow of Camel's 
Hump, I stump. 

The blasted pine and the ghostly 
Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead by the hidden log 
Are they who came from the town : 

The man in his sleigh, and his faith- 
ful dog. 
And his beautiful Morgan brown , 

In the wide sno\\-desert, far and 
grand, 

With his cap on his head and the 
reins in his hand. 

The dog with his nose on his master's 
feet. 

And the mare half seen through the 
crusted sleet. 
Where she lay when she floundered 
down. 



George Eliot (Marian Evans Cross) 



MAY I JOIX rilE CHOIR 
INVISIBLE. 

O MAY I join the choir invisible 

Of these immortal dead who live 

again 
In minds made better by their pres- 
ence; live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
Of miserable aims that end with 

self. 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the 
night like stars, 



And with their mild persistence urge 

men's minds 
To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music ii\the world. 
Breathing a beauteous order, that 

controls 
With growing sway the growing life 

of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For Avhich we struggled, failed and 

agonized 
With widening retrospect that bre.i 

despair. 



m. 



210 



ELLIOT. 



Kebellious flesh that would not be 

subdueil, 
A vicious parent shaming still its 

child, [solved; 

Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- 
Its discords quenched by meeting 

harmonies. 
Die in the laige and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, l)etter, truer self, 
That sobbed religiously in yearning 

song, 
That watched to ease the burden of 

the world. 
Laboriously tracing what must be, 
And what may yet be better, — saw 

within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the mul- 
titude. 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed 

with love, — [Time 

That better self shall live till htunan 



Shall fold its eyelids, and the human 

sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the 

tomb. 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made 

more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. 

May I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other 

souls 
The cup of strength in some great 

agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pm"e 

love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good dif- 
fused. 
And in diffusion ever more intense! 
So shall I join the choir invisible, 
Whose nuisic is the gladness of the 

woi'ld. 



Jane Elliot. 



THE FLO WE US OF THE FOHEST. 

I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking. 

Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; 
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, 
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; 

Nae daftin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing. 
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. 

In liairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; 

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roammg, 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; 

But ilk ane sits drearie. lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border 
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; 

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, 
The ])rime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 



^e$ 



ELJAOTT. 



211 



W^e hear iiae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, 
Women and bairns are heartless and wae; 

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 
Til'' Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



Ebenezer Elliott. 



POOR AXDREW. 

TnK loving poor! — So envy calls 

The ever-toiling poor: 
But oh! I choke, my heart grows 
faint, 

When I approach my door! 
Behind it there are living things. 

Whose silent frontlets say 
They'd rather see me out than in. — 

Feet foremost borne away ! 
My heart grows sick when home I 
come, — 

May God the thought forgive! 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat. 

I think I could not live. 

My dog and cat, when I come home. 

Run out to welcome me, — 
She mewing, Avith her tail on end. 

While wagging his comes he. 
They listen for my homeward steps. 

My smothered sob they hear, 
When down my heart sinks, deathly 

down, 
■ Because my home is near. 
My heart grows faint when home I 
come, — 
May God the thought forgive ! 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 
I think I could not live. 

I'd rather be a happy bird, 

Tlian, scorned and loathed, a king; 
But man should live while for him 
lives 

The meanest loving thing. 
Thou busy bee ! how canst thou choose 

So far and wide to roam ? 
O blessed bee! thy glad wings say 

Thou hast a happy home ! 
But I, when I come home, — O God! 

Wilt thou the thought forgive ? 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 



They do not 



Why come they not 
come 

My breaking heart to meet! 
A heavier darkness on me falls, — 

1 cannot lift my feet. 
Oh, yes. they come! — they never fail 

To listen for my sighs ; 
My poor heart brightens when it 
meets 

The sunshine of their eyes. 
Again they come to meet me. — God ! 

Wilt thou the thought foi-give ? 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 

This heart is like a churchyard stone; 

My home is comfort's grave; 
My playful cat and honest dog 

Are all the friends 1 have; 
And yet my house is filled with 
friends, — 

But foes they seem, and are. 
AVhat makes them hostile? Igno- 
hance; 

Then let me not despair. 
But oh ! I sigh when home I come,— 

May God the thought forgive ! 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 



THE PUESS. 

God sail,— " Let there be light! " 
Grim darkness felt his might. 
And fled away: 
Then startled seas and mountains 

cold 
Shone forth, all bright in blue and 
gold, 
And cried, — "'Tis day! 'tis day!" 
" Hail, holy light!" exclaimed 
The thunderous cloud that flamed 
O'er daisies white; 




212 



ELLIOTT. 



And lo ! the rose, in crimson dressed, 
Leaned sweetly on tlie lily's breast; 
And, blushing, niurnmred, — 
"Light!" 
Then was tlie skylark born ; 
Then rose the eniljattled corn ; 
Then floods of praise 
Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon; 
And then, in stillest night, the moon 
Poured forth her pensive lays. 
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad! 
Lo, trees and flowers, all clad 
In glory, bloom! 
And shall the mortal sons of God 
Be senseless as the trodden clod, 
And darker than the tomb ? 
No, by the mind of man! 
By the swart artisan ! 

By God, our sire! 
Our souls have holy Hght within; 
And every form of grief and sin 
Shall see and feel its fire. 
By earth, and hell, and heaven. 
The shroud of souls is riven ! 
Mind, mind alone 
Is light, and hope, and life, and power ! 
Earth's deepest night, from this 
blessed hour, 
The night of nnnds, is gone ! 
" The Press! " all lands shall sing; 
The Press, the Press we bring. 
All lands to bless : 
Oh, pallid Want! Oh, Labor stark! 
Beliold we bring the second ark I 

The Press ! the Press ! the Press ! 



THE POET'S PRAYER. 

Almighty Father! let thv lowly 
child. 
Strong in his love of truth, be 
wisely bold, — 
A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, 
Let him live usefully, and not die 
old ! 
Let poor men's children, pleased to 
read his lays. 
Love, for his sake, the scenes where 
he hath been, 



And when he ends his pilgrimage of 

days. 
Let him be buried where the grass 
is green. 
Where daisies, blooming earliest, 
linger late 
To hear the bee his busy note pro- 
long; 
There let him slumber, and in peace 
await 
The dawning morn, far from the 
sensual throng. 
Who scorn the windflower's blush, 
the redbreast's lonely song.' 



to 



XOT FOR NAUGHT. 

Do and suffer naught in vain; 

Let no trifle trifling be! 
If the salt of life is pain. 

Let even wrongs bring good 
thee ; 
Good to others few or many, — 
Good to all, or good to any. 



If men curse thee, plant their lies 
Where for truth they best may 
grow; 

Let the railers make thee wise. 
Preaching peace where'er thou go! 

God no useless plant hath i)lanted, 

Evil — wisely used — is wanted. 

If the nation-feeding corn 
Thriveth under iced snow; 

If the small bird on the tliorn 
Useth well its guarded sloe. — 

Bid thy cares thy comforts double. 

Gather fruit from thorns of trouble. 

See the rivers ! how they run. 
Strong in gloom, and strong in 
light! 
Like the never-wearied sun, 
Through the day and through the 
night. 
Each along his path of duty, 
Turning coldness into beauty. 



EMERSON. 



213 



Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



ODE. 

O TENDEELY the haughty day 
Fills his blue urn with tire; 

One morn is in the mighty heaven, 
And one in our desire. 

The cannon booms from town to 
town, 
Our pulses are not less. 
The joy-bells chime their tidings 
tlown, 
Which children's voices bless. 

For he that flung the broad blue fold 
O'er mantling land and sea. 

One third part of the sky unrolled 
For the banner of the free. 

The men are ripe of Saxon kind 
To build an equal state, — 

To take the statute from the mind. 
And make of duty fate. 

United States! the ages plead, — 
Present and past in under-song, — 

Go put your creed into your deed. 
Nor speak with double tongue. 

For sea and land don't understand. 

Nor skies without a frown 
See rights for which the one hand 
fights 

By the other cloven down. 

Be just at home ; then write your scroll 

Of honor o'er the sea, 
And bid the broad Atlantic roll 

A ferry of the free. 

And, henceforth, there shall be no 
chain, 
Save underneath the sea 
The wires shall murmur through the 
main 
Sweet songs of Liberty. 

The conscious stars accord above. 

The waters wild below. 
And under, through the cable wove. 

Her fiery errands go. 



For he that worketh high and wise, 

Nor pauses in his plan. 
Will take the sun out of the skies 

Ere freedom out of man. 



THE PUOBLEM. 

I LIKE a church; I like a cowl; 
1 love a prophet of the soul; 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive 

smiles ; 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
AVould 1 that cowleil churchman be. 

AVhy should the vest on him allure. 
Which 1 coidd not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias 

brought. 
Never from lips of cunning, fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracTe; 
Out from the heart of nature rolled 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 
The litanies of nations came. 
Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
Up from the burning core below, — 
The canticles of love and woe ; 
The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 
And groined the aisles of Christian 

Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
Himself from God he could not free : 
He builded better than he knew; — 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Kuowest thou what wove yon wood- 
bird's nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her 

breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
Painting with morn each aniuial cell ? 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Such and so grew these holy piles. 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the l)est gem upon her zone; 



214 



EMERSON. 



And morning opes with liaste lier lids, 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
As on its friends, with kindred eye; 
For out of thought's interior sphere. 
These wonders rose to upper air; 
And nature gladly gave them place. 
Adopted them into her race. 
And granted them an equal date 
Witli Andes and with Ararat. 

Tliese temples grew as grows the 

grass ; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 
The passive Master lent his hand 
To the vast soul that o'er him 

planned; 
And the same power that reared the 

shrine 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
Ever the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one tlanie the countless 

host. 
Trances the heart through chanting 

choirs, 
xVnd through the priest the mind in- 
spires. 
The word imto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word by seers or sibyls tohl, 
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the fathers wise, — 
The Book itself before me lies, 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line. 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are nuisic in my ear, 
1 see his cowled portrait dear; 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 



THE RHODOnA. 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our 

solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora In the 

woods. 



Spreading its leafless blooms in a 

damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish 

brook. 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool. 
Made the black water with their 

beauty gay ; 
Here might the red-bird come his 

plumes to cool, 
And court the flower that cheapens 

his array. 
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the earth 

and sky, 
Dear, tell them, that if eyes were 

made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for 

being: 
Why thou wert there, oh. rival of the 

rose ! 
I never thought to ask, 1 never knew : 
But in my simple ignorance, suppose 
The selfsame power that brought nie 

there, brought you. 



THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Bi ui.v, dozing humble-bee. 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Ricjue, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 
I will follow thee alone. 
Thou animated torrid-zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheei'er. 
Let me chase thy waving lines: 
Keep me nearer, me thy liearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion! 
.Sailor of the atmosphere; 
SwimuKM- through tlie waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon; 
Epicurean of June; 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south-wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall. 
And, with softness touching all. 




THE CONCORD BRIDGE. 



Page 215. 



EMERSON. 



215 



Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance. 
And, infusing subtle iieats, 
Turns the sod to violets, 
Thou, in sunny solitudes, 
Rover of tlie underwoods, 
Tlie green silence dost displace 
With tliy mellow, breezy bass. 



Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours. 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers : 
Of gulfs of sweetness Avithout boiuid 
In Indian wildernesses found; 
Of Syrian peace, innnortal leisure. 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 



Aught imsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen; 
But violets and bilberry l)ells, 
Maple-sap, and daffodils, 
Grass witli green flag lialf-mast higb, 
Succory to match the sky, 
Columbine with horn of honey. 
Scented fern and agrimony, 
Clover, catchfly, adder' s-tongue. 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as lie passed. 

Wiser far than luunan seer. 
Yellow-breeclied philosopher I 
Seeing only what is fair. 
Sipping only wliat is sweet. 
Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
Leave the cliaff, and take the wlieat. 
When the fierce nortliwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 



CONCORD FIGHT. 

By the rude bridge tliat arched the 
flood, 
Tlieir flag to April' s breeze vmfurled , 
Here once tlie embattled farmers 
stood. 
And fired the shot heard round tlie 
world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream wliicli sea- 
ward creeps. 

On this green bank, by tliis soft 
stream. 
We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may tlieir deed redeem, 
Wlien, like our sires, our sons are 
gone. 

Spirit, that made tliose heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children 
free. 
Bid time and nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and 
tliee. 



FOnnKAIlANCE. 

Hast thou named all tlie birds with- 
out a gun ? 

Loved tlie wood-rose, and left it on 
its stalk ? 

At rich men's tables eaten bread and 
pulse ? 

Unarmed, faced danger with a lieart 
of trust '? 

And loved so well a higli behavior, 

In man or maid, that tliou from 
speech refrained, 

Nobility more nobly to repay ? 

Oh. be my friend, "and teach me to 
be thine ! 



216 



FABER. 



Frederic William Faber. 



THE lUdHT MUST WIS. 

Oh, it is hard to work for God, 

To rise and talce liis part 
Upon tliis battle-field of earth, 

And not sometimes lose heart ! 

He hides himself so wondrously, 
As though there A\ere no God; 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or he deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 

Just when we need him most. 

Ill masters good, good seems to change 

To ill with greatest ease; 
And, worst of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

Ah ! God is other than we think : 

His ways are far above, 
Far beyond reason's height, and 
reached 

Only by childlike love. 

Workman of God ! oh, lose not heart, 
But learn what God is like; 

And in the darkest battle-field 
Thou shalt know M'here to strike. 

Thrice blest is he to whom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field when he 

Is most invisible. 



Blest, too, is he who can divine 
Where real right doth lie, 

And dares to take the side 
seems 
Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 



that 



For right is right, since God is God; 

And right the day must win; 
To doubt wouhl be disloyalty, 

To falter would be sin! 



HARSH JUDGMENTS. 

O God! whose thoughts are brightest 
light. 

Whose love runs always clear, 
To whose kind wistlom, sinning souls. 

Amid their sins, ai'e dear, — 

Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart 

AVith charity like thine. 
Till self shall be the only si)Ot 

On earth that does not shine. 

Hard-heartedness dwells not with 
souls 
Bound whom thine arms are drawn ; 
And dai-k thoughts fade away in 
grace, 
Like cloud-spots in the dawn. 

Time was when I believed that wi ong 

In others to detect 
Was part of genius, and a gift 

To cherish, not reject. 

Now, better taught by thee, O Lord ! 

This truth dawns on my mind. 
The best effect of heavenly light 

Is earth's false eyes to blind. 

He whom no praise can reach is aye 
Men's least attempts approving; 

Whom justice makes all-merciful, 
Omniscience makes all-loving. 

When we ourselves least kindly are. 

We deem the world unkind : 
Dark hearts, in flowers where honey 
lies. 

Only the poison find. 

How Thou canst think so w ell of us, 

Yet be the God Thou art, 
Is darkness to my intellect, 

But sunshine to my heart. 

Yet habits linger in the soul; 

More grace, O Lord ! more grace; 
More sweetness from thy loving heart, 

More sunshine from tbv face! 



FALCONER. 



21- 



LOW SPIRITS. 

Fever and fret and aimless stir 

And disappointed strife, 
All chafing, unsuccessful things. 

Make up the sum of life. 

Love adds anxiety to toil, 
And sameness doubles cares. 

While one unbroken chain of work 
The flagging temper wears. 

The light and air are dulled with 
smoke ; 

The streets resound with noise; 
And the soul sinks to see its peers 

Chasing their joyless joj's. 

Voices are round me; smiles are 
near; 

Kind welcomes to be had ; 
And yet my spirit is alone, 

Fretful, outworn, and sad. 

A weary actor, I would fain 

Be quit of my long part; 
The burden of unquiet life 

Lies heg,vy on my heart. 

Sweet thought of God! now do thy 
work. 
As thou hast done before ; 
Wake up, and tears will wake with 
thee. 
And the dull mood be o'er. 



The very thinking of the thought 
Without or praise or prayer, 

Gives light to know and life to do. 
And marvellous strength to bear. 

Oh, there is music in that thought, 

L^nto a heait unstrung. 
Like sweet bells at the evening time, 

Most musically rung. 

'Tis not His justice or His power. 

Beauty or blest abode. 
But the mere unexpanded thought 

Of the eternal God. 

It is not of His wondrous works, 

Not even that He is ; 
Words fail it, but it is a thought 

Which by itself is bliss. 

Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart! 

Thus I may feel thee near. 
As one who for his weapon feels 

In some nocturnal fear. 

Mostly in hours of gloom, thou 
com'st. 

When sadness makes us loviy. 
As though thou wert the echo sweet 

Of humble melancholy. 

I bless Thee, Lord, for this kind 
check 

To spirits over-free ! 
And for all things that make me feel 

More helpless need of Thee ! 



William Falconer. 



iFrom The Shipwreck.] 
WliECKED IN THE TEMPEST. 

AxD noAv, while winged with ruin 
from on high. 

Through the rent cloud the ragged 
lightnings fly, 

A flash quick glancing on the neiwes 
of light. 

Struck the pale helmsman witli eter- 
nal night: 



Quick to the abandoned wheel Arion 
came. 

The ship's tempestuous sallies to re- 
claim. 

Amazed he saw her, o'er the sound- 
ing foam 

Upborne, to right and left distracted 
roam. 

So gazed young Phaeton, with pale 
dismay. 

When, mounted on the flaming car 
of (lav. 



^^^i 



218 



FALCONER. 



With rash and impious hand the 

stripUng tried 
The iniuiortal coursers of the sun to 

guide. 

With mournful look the seamen 
eyed the strand. 

Where death's inexorable jaws ex- 
pand ; 

Swift from their minds elapsed all 
dangers past, 

As, dumb with terror, they beheld 
the last. 

And now, lashed on by destiny se- 
vere, 

AVith horror fraught the dreadful 
scene drew near! 

The ship hangs hovering on the verge 
of death. 

Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers 
roar beneath ! 

In vain, alas! the sacred shades of 
yore. 

Would arm the mind with philosophic 
lore; [breath, 

In vain they'd teach us, at the latest 

To smile serene amid the pangs of 
death. 

Even Zeno's self, and Epictetus old. 

This fell abyss had shuddered to be- 
hold.' 

Had Socrates, for godlike virtue 
famed, 

And wisest of the sons of men pro- 
claimed, 

Beheld this scene of frenzy and dis- 
tress. 

His soul had trembled to its last re- 
cess! 

O yet confirm my heart, ye powers 
above. 

This last tremendous shock of fate 
to prove ! 

The tottering frame of reason yet 
sustain ! 

Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! 

In vain the cords and axes were pre- 
pared. 

For now the audacious seas insult 
the yard ; 

High o'er the ship they throw a hor- 
rid shade, 

And o'erher burst, in terrible cascade. 



Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she 

flies. 
Her shattered top half buried in the 

skies, 
Then headlong plunging thunders on 

the ground. 
Earth groans, air trembles, and the 

deeps resound ! 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion 

feels, 
And quivering with the wound, in 

torment reels; 



Again she plunges; hark! a second 
shock 

Tears her strong bottom on the mar- 
ble rock ! 

Down on the vale of death, with dis- 
mal cries. 

The fated victims shuddering roll 
their eyes 

In wild despair; while yet another 
stroke. 

With deep convulsion, rends the solid 
oak: 

Till, like the mine, in whose infernal 
cell 

The lurking demons of destruction 
dwell, 

At length asunder torn her frame 
divides, 

And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the 
tides. 



[From The Shipu^reck:] 
A SUiVSET PICTURE. 

The sun's bright orb, declining all 
serene, 

Now glanced obliquely o'er the wood- 
land scene; 

Creation smiles around ; on every 
spray 

The warbling birds exalt their even- 
ing lay ; 

Blithe skipping o"er yon hill, the 
fleecy train 

Join the deep chorus of the lowing 
plain; 

The golden lime and orange there 
were seen 



On fragrant branches of perpetual 

green; 
The crystal streams that velvet mead- 
ows lave, 
To the green ocean roll with chiding 

wave. 
The glassy ocean, hushed, forgets to 

roar ; 
But trembling, murmurs on the sandy 

shore; 
And, lo! his surface lovely to behold. 
Glows in the west, a sea of living 

gold! 
While all above a thousand liveries 

gay 
The skies with poini) ineffable array. 



Arabian sweets perfume the happy 
plains; 

Above, beneath, around, enchant- 
ment reigns 

While glowing Vesper leads the starry 
train. 

And Night slow draws her veil o'er 
land and main, 

Emerging clouds the azure east in- 
vade. 

And wrap the lucid spheres in grad- 
ual shade; 

While yet the songsters of the vocal 
grove 

With dying numbers tune the soul to 
love. 



Edgar Fawcett. 



IDEALS. 

O SciENCK, whose footsteps wander. 

Audacious and unafraid, 
Where the mysteries that men pon- 
der 
Lie folded in awful shade, 
Though you bring us, with calm defi- 
ance, 
Dear gifts from the bourns you 
wing, 
There is yet, O undaunted Science, 
One gift that you do not bring ! 

Shall you conquer the last restriction 

That conceals it from you now. 
And come back with its benediction 

Like an aureole on your brow ? 
Shall you fly to us, roamer daring. 

Past barriers of time and space. 
And return from your mission bear- 
ing 

The light of God on your face ? 

We know not, but still can treasure. 

In the yearnings of our suspense, 
Consolation we may not measure 

By the certitudes of Sense. 
For Life, as we long and question. 

Seems to si)eak, while it hurries by. 
Through undertones of suggestion 

Immortality's deep reply. 



To ears that await its token 

Perpetually it strays. 
Indeterminate, fitful, broken. 

By the discords of our days. 
It pierces the grim disasters 

Of clamorous human Hate, 
And its influence overmasters 

All the Ironies of Fate. 

The icy laugh of the scorner 

Cannot strike its echoes mute; 
It cleaves the moan of the mourner 

Like a clear leolian lute; 
At its tone less clear and savage 

Gro^^■s the anguish of f areweU tears, 
And its melody haunts the ravage 

Of the desecrating years. 

Philosophy builds, and spares not 

Her firm, laborious power. 
But her lordly edifice wears not 

Its last aerial tower. 
For the quarries of Keason fail her 

Ere the structure's perfect scope. 
And the stone that would now avail 
her [hope. 

Must be hewn from heights of 

But Art, at her noblest glory. 
Can seem, to her lovers fond, 

As divinely admonitory 
Of infinitudes beyond. 




mm 



•2-20 



FAWCETT. 



She can beam upon Earth's abase- 
ments 

Like a splendor flung down sublime 
Through vague yet exalted casements 

From eternity into time. 

On the canvas of some great painter 

We may trace, in its varied flame, 
Now leaping aloft, now fainter, 

As the mood uplifts the aim, 
That impulse by whose rare presence 

His venturing brush has drawn 
Its hues from the efflorescence 

Of a far Elysian dawn. 

An impassioned watcher gazes 

Where the faultless curves combine 
That sculpture's mightier phases 

Imperially enshrine. 
And he feels that by strange election 

The artificer's genius wrought 
From the marble a pale perfection 

That is paramount over thought. 

So at music entranced we wonder, 

If its cliarm the spii'it seeks, 
When with mellow voluminous thun- 
der 

A sovereign maestio speaks. 
Till it seems that by ghostly aidance 

Upraised above lesser throngs, 
He has caught from the stars their 
cadence 

And woven the wind into songs. 

More than all, if the stately brilliance 

Of a poet's rapture rise, 
Like a fountain wliose full resilience 

Is lovely against fair skies. 
Are we thrilled with a dream un- 
bounded 

Of deeps by no vision scanned. 
That conjecture has never sounded 

And conception has never spanned. 

So the harvest that knowledge misses, 

Intuition seems to reap ; 
One pauses before the abysses 

That one will delight to leap. 
One balks the ruminant sages. 

And one bids the world aspire. 
While the slow processional ages 

Irreversibly retire. 



WOUNDS. 

The night-wind sweeps its viewless 
lyre, 

And o'er dim lands, at pastoral rest, 
A single star's white heart of fire 

Is throbbing in the amber west. 

I track a rivulet, while 1 roam. 
By banks that copious leafage cools, 

And watclx it roughening into foam, 
Or deepening into glassy pools. 

And where the shy stream gains a 
glade 

That willowy thickets overwhelm, 
I find a cottage in the shade 

Of one higli patriarchal elm. 

Unseen, I mark, well bowered from 
reach, 

A group tlie sloping lawn displays, 
And more by gestures than by speech 

I learn their converse' while I gaze. 

In curious band, youth, maid, and 
dame. 
About his chair they throng to 
greet 
A gaunt old man of crippled frame, 
Whose crutch leans idle at his feet. 

Girt with meek twilight's peaceful 

breath, [fray, 

They hear of loud, tempestuous 

Of troops mown down like wheat by 

death, 

Of red Antietam's ghastly day. 

He tells of hurts that will not heal; 

Of aches that nerve and sinew fret. 
Where sting of shot and bite of steel 

Have left their dull mementos yet; 

And touched by pathos, filled with 

praise. 
His gathered hearers closer press, 
To pay alike in glance or phrase, 
Eesponse of pitying tenderness. 

But I, who note their kindly will. 
Look onward, past the box-edged 
walk, [still. 

Where stands a woman, grave and 
Oblivious of their fleeting talk. 



FAIVCETT. 



Her listless arms droop either side ; 

In pensive grace her brow is bent; 
Her slender form leaves half-descried 

A sweet fatigued abandonment. 

And while she lures my musing eye, 
The mournful reverie of her air 

Speaks to my thought, I know not 
why, 
In the stern dialect of despair. 

Lone wistful moods it seems to show 
Of anguish borne through lagganl 
years. 

With outward calm, \\ ith secret flow 
Of unalleviating tears. 

It breathes of duty's daily strife. 
When jaded effort loathes to strive ; 

Of patience lingering firm, when life 
Is tired of being yet alive. 

Enthralled by this fair, piteous face, 
While heaven is purpling overhead, 

No more 1 heed the old soldier trace 
How sword has cut, or bullet sped. 

I dream of sorrow's noiseless fight. 
Where no blades ring, no cannon 
roll, 
And where the shadowy blows that 
smite 
Give bloodless wounds that s:-ar 
the soul ; 

Of fate unmoved by desperate prayers 
From those its plunderous wrath 
lays low; 
Of bivouacs where the spirit stares 
At smouldering passion's faded 
glow; 

And last, of that sad armistice made 
On the dark field whence hope has 
fled, 



Ere yet, like some poor ghost unlaid, 
Pale Memory glides to count her 
dead. 




THE WOOD-TURTLE. 

Girt with the grove's aerial sigh. 
In clumsy stupor, deaf as fate, 

Near this coiled, naked root you lie. 
Imperviously inanimate. 

Between these woodlands where we 
met. 
And your grim languor, void of 
grace. 
My glance, dumb sylvan anchoret. 
Mysterious kinsmanship can trace. 

For in your checkered shape are shown 
The miry black of swamp and bog, 

The tawny brown of lichened stone. 
The inertness of the tumbled log. 

But when you break this lifeless pause. 
And from your parted shell out- 
spread 

A rude array of lumbering claws, 
A length of lean, dark snaky head, 

I watch from sluggish torpor start 
These vital signs, uncouth and 
strange. 
And mutely murmur to my heart: 
"Ah me! how lovelier were the 
change, 

" If yonder tough oak, seamed with 

scars. 
Could give some white, wild form 

release, 
With eyes amid whose wistful stars 
Burned memories of immortal 

Greece!" 




222 



FAY — FENNER. 



Anna Maria Fay. 



SLEEP AND DEATH. 

Oft see we in the garish round of 
day 

A danger-haunted world for our 
sad feet, 

Or fear we tread along the peopled 
street 

A homeless path, an inicompan- 
ioned way. 
So too the night doth bring its own 
array 

Of darkling terrors we must singly 
meet. 

Each soul apart in its unknown re- 
treat, 

With life a purposeless, uncon- 
scious play. 
But though the day discovers us 
afraid. 

Unsure of some safe hand to be 
our guide. 

Rest we at night, as if for each 
were said. 



" He giveth unto His beloved sleep." 
Nought less than all do we in sleep 

confide, 
And death but needs of us a trust 

as deep. 



RONDEL. 

AViiK.x love is in her eyes. 

What need of Spring for me ? 
A brighter emerald lies 

On hill and vale and lea. 
The azure of the skies 

Holds nought so sweet to see, 
When love is in her eyes. 

What need of Spring for me ? 

Her bloom the rose outvies. 
The lily dares no plea. 

The violet's glory dies. 
No flower so sweet can be ; 

When love is in her eyes, 
What need of Spring for me ? 



Cornelius George Fenner. 



GULF-WEED. 

A WEARY weed, tossed to and fro. 

Drearily drenched in the ocean 
brine. 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lashed along without will of mine; 
Sport of the spume of the surging sea; 

Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
Mark my manifold mystery, — 

Growth and grace in their place 
appear. 

1 bear round berries, gray and red, 
Rootless and rover though I be; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely 
spread. 



Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar, 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding 
shore. 

Something whispers soft to me. 
Restless and roaming for evermore. 

Like this weary weed of the sea; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 

The eternal type of the wondrous 
whole : 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 



FIELDS. 



223 



ANNIE Fields. 



TO SAPPHO. 

Daughter of Love ! Out of the flow- 
ing river, 

Bearing the tide of life upon its bil- 
low, 

Down to that gulf where love and 
song together 

Sink and must perish : 

Out of that fatal and resistless cur- 
rent. 

One little song of thine to thy great 
mother. 

Treasured upon the heart of earth 
forever, 

Alone is rescued. 

Yet when spring comes, and weary is 
the spirit. 

When love is here, but absent is the 
lover. 

And life is here, and only love is dy- 
ing? 

Then turn we, longing, 

Singer, to thee ! Through ages unf or- 
gotteu ; 

Where beats the heart of one who in 
her loving 

Sang, all for love, and gave herself 
in singing 

To the sea's bosom. 



[From The Last Contest of JEschylus.] 

YOUNG SOPHOCLES TAKING THE 
PRIZE FROM AGED ^SCHYLUS. 

But now the games succeeded, then 
a pause. 

And after came the judges with the 
scrolls ; 

Two scrolls, not one, as in departed 
years. 

And this saw none but the youth, 
Sophocles, 

Who stood with head erect and shin- 
ing eyes, 

As if the beacon of some promised 
land 

Caught his strong vision and en- 
tranced it there. 



Then while the earth made mimicry 

of heaven 
With stillness, calmly spake the 

mightiest judge: 
"O yEschylus! The father of our 

song! 
Athenian master of the tragic lyre 
Thou the incomparable! Swayer of 

strong hearts! 
Immortal minstrel of immortal deeds ! 
The autumn grows apace, and all 

must die; 
Soon winter comes, and silence. 

^schylus! 
After that silence laughs the tuneful 

spring ! 
Read'st thou our meaning through 

this slender veil 
Of nature's weaving? Sophocles, 

stand forth! 
Behold Fame calls thee to her loftiest 

seat. 
And bids thee wear her crown. Stand 

forth, I say!" 
Then, like a fawii, the youthful poet 

sprang 
From the dark thicket of new crowd- 
ing friends. 
And stood, a straight, lithe form with 

gentle mien, 
(/rowned first with light of happiness 

and youth. 

But ^schylus, the old man, bending 

lower 
Under this new chief weight of all 

the years, 
Turned from that scene, turned from 

the shouting crowd. 
Whose every voice wounded his dying 

soul 
With arrows poison-dipped, and 

walked alone. 
Forgotten, under plane-trees, by the 

stream. 
"The last! The last! Have I no more 

to do 
With this sweet world ! Is the bright 

morning now 
No longer fraught for me with crowd- 
ing song ? 




Will evening bring no unsought fruit- 
age home ? 
Must the days pass and these poor 

lips be dumb, 
While strewing leaves sing falling 

through the air, 
And autumn gathers in her richest 

fruit '? 
Where is my spring departed? Where, 

O gods ! 
AVithin my spirit still the building 

birds 
I hear, with voice more tender than 

when leaves 
Are budding and the happy earth is 

gay- 
Am I, indeed, grown dumb for ever- 
more ! 
Take me. O bark! Take me, thou 

flowing stream! 
Who knowest nought of death save 

when thy waves 
Piush to new life upon the ocean's 

breast. 
Bear thou me singing to the under 

world ! 



[From Soplioclei.] 

AGED SOPHOCLES ADDRESSING THE 

ATHENIANS BEFORE READING HIS 

(ED IPC'S COLONEUy. 

Bowed half with age and half with 

reverence, thus, 
I, Sophocles, now answer to your 

call; 
Questioned have I the cause and the 

reason learned. 
Lo, 1 am here that all the world may 

see 
These feeble limbs that signal of de- 
cay! 
But, know ye, ere the aged oak must 

die. 
Long after the strong years have 

bent his form, 
The spring still gently weaves a leafy 

crown, 
Fresh as of yore to deck his wintry 

head. 
And now, O people mine, who have 

loved my song, 



Ye shall be judges if the spring have 

brought 
Late unto me, the aged oak, a crown. 
Hear yc once more, ere yet the river 

of sleej) 
Bear me away far on its darkening 

tide. 
The music breathed upon me fi-om 

these fields. 
If to your ears, alas! the shattered 

strings 
No longer sing, but breathe a discord 

harsh, 
I will return and draw this mantle 

close 
About my head and lay me down to 

die. 
But if ye hear the wonted spirit call, 
Framing the natural song that fills 

this world 
To a diviner form, then shall ye all 

believe 
The love I bear to those most near to 

me 
Is living still, and living cannot 

wrong; 
To me, it seems, the love I bear to 

thee, 
Athens, blooms fresh as violets in yon 

wood, 
Making new spring within this aged 

breast. 



AT THE FORGE. 



I AM Ilephaistos, and forever here 
Stand at the forge and labor, while I 

dream 
Of those who labor not and are not 

lame. 
I hear the early and the late birds 

call, 
Hear winter whisper to the coming 

s])ring. 
And watch the feet of summer danc- 
ing light 
For joy across the bosom of the earth. 
Labor endures, but all of these must 

pass ! 
And ye who love them best, nor are 

condemned 



FIELDS. 



225 



To beat the anvil through the sum- 
mer day, 
May learn the secret of their sudden 

flight; 
No mortal tongue may whisper wliere 

they hide, 
But to her love, half nestled in the 

grass. 
Earth lias been known to whisper low 

yet clear 
Strange consolation for the wintry 

days. 
Oh, listen then, ye singers! learn and 

tell 
• Those who must labor by the dusty 

way! 



PASSAGE FROM THE PRELUDE. 

YOUTH of the world, 
Tliou wert sweet ! 

In thy bud 

Slept nor canker nor pain; 
In ihe blood 

Of thy graije was no frost and n( 
rain; 

1 love thee! I follow thy feet ! 



The youth of my heart, 

And the deathless fire 

Leap to embrace thee : 

And nlgher, and nigher, 

Through tlie darkness of grief and 

the smart. 
Thy form do I see. 

But the tremulous hand of the years 
Has brought me a friend. 
Beautiful gift beyond price I 
Beyond loss, beyond tears! 
Hither she stands, clad in a veil. 
O thou youth of tlie world ! 
She was a stranger to thee, 
Thou didst fear her and flee. 

Sorrow is her name ; 
And the face of Sorrow is pale; 
But her heart is aflame 
With a fire no winter can tame. 
Her love will not bend 
To the storm. 
To the voices of pleasure. 
Nor faint in the arms of the earth ; 
But she followeth ever the form 
Of the Master whose promise is sure. 
Who knows both our death and oiu" 
birth. . 



James Thomas Fields. 



MORNING AND EVENING BY THE 

SEA. 

At dawn the fleet stretched miles 
away 

On ocean-plains asleep, — 
Trim vessels waiting for the day 

To move across the deep. 
So still the sails they seemed to be 
White lilies growing in the sea. 

When evening touched the cape's 
low rim. 
And dark fell on the waves, 
We only saw processions dim 

Of clouds, from shadowy caves ; 
These were the ghosts of buried ships 
Gone down in one brief hour's 
eclipse ! 



THE PERPETUITY OF SONG. 

It was a blithesome young jongleur 

Who started out to sing. 
Eight hundred years ago, or more. 

On a leafy morn in spring; 
And he carolled sweet as any bird 

That ever tried its wing. 

Of love his little heart was full, — 

Madonna ! how he sang ! 
The blossoms trembled with delight, 

And round about him sprang, 
As forth among tlie banks of Loire 

The minstrel's music rang. 

The boy had left a home of want 
To wander up and down. 



And sing for bread and nightly rest 

In many an alien town. 
And bear whatever lot befell, — 

The alternate smile and frown. 

The singer's carolling lips are dust. 

And ages long since then 
Dead kings have lain beside their 
thrones, 

Voiceless as common men, — 
But Gerald's songs are echoing still 

Through every mountain glen! 



/.V EXTREMIS. 

On. the soul-haunting shadows when 

low he'll lie dying, 
And the dread angel's voice for his 

spirit is crying! 
Where will his thoughts wander, just 

before sleeping, 
When a chill from the dark o'er his 

forehead is creeping ? 
Will he go on beguiling. 
And wantonly smiling ? 

'Tis June with him now, but quick 

cometh December ; 
There's a broken heart somewhere 

for him to remember. 
And sure as God liveth, for all his 

gay trolling. 
The bell for his passing one day will 

be tolling! 

Then no more beguiling. 
False vowing and smiling! 



A PROTEST. 

Go, sophist! dare not to despoil 
My life of what it sorely needs 

In days of pain, in hours of toil, — 
The bread on which my spirit 
feeds. 

You see no light beyond the stars. 
No hope of lasting joys to come ? 

I feel, thank God, no narrow bars 
Iletween me and my final home! 



Hence with your cold sepulcliral 
bans, — 
The vassal doubts Unfaith has 
given ! 
My childhood's heart within the 
man's 
Still whispers to me, "Trust in 
Heaven ! ' ' 



COURTESY. 

How sweet and gracious, even in 

common speech. 
Is that fine sense which men call 

Courtesy ! 
Wholesome as air and genial as the 

light, 
Welcome in every clime as breath of 

flowers, — 
It transnmtes aliens into trusting 

friends. 
And gives its owner passport round 

the globe. 



A CHARACTER. 

O HAPPIEST he, whose riper years 

retain 
The hopes of youth, unsullied by a 

stain! 
His eve of life in calm content shall 

glide, 
Like the still streamlet to tlie ocean 

tide: 
No gloomy cloud hangs o'er his tran- 
quil day; 
No meteor lures him from his home 

astray ; 
For him there glows with glittering 

beam on high 
Love's changeless star that leads him 

to the sky ; 
Still to the past he sometimes turns 

to trace 
The mild expression of a mother's 

face. 
And dreams, perchance, as oft in 

earlier years. 
The low, sweet music of her voice he 

hears. 



FINCH. 



2-11 



FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE ODEON. 

"I AM Nicholas Tacchinardi, — hunchbacked, look you, and a fright; 

Caliban himself might never interpose so foul a sight. 

Granted; but 1 come not, masters, to exhibit form or size. 

Gaze not on my limbs, good people; lend your ears, and not your e//e.s. 

I'm a singer, not a ditncer, — spare me for a while your din; 

Let me try my voice to-night here, — keep your jests till 1 begin. 

Have the kindness but to listen, — this is all I dare to ask. 

See, I stand beside the footlights, waiting to begin my task, 

If I fail to please you, curse me, — not before my voice you hear. 

Thrust- me not from the Odeon. Hearken, and I've naught to fear." 

Then the crowd in pit and boxes jeered the dwarf, and mocked his shape; 
Called him "monster." "thing abhorrent," crying, "Off, presumptuous ape ! 
Off, vmsightly, baleful creature! off, and quit the insulted stage! 
Move aside, repulsive figure, or deplore our gathering rage." 

Bowing low, pale Tacchinardi, long accustomed to such threats. 
Burst into a grand bravura, showering notes like diamond jets, — 
Sang until the ringing plaudits through the wide Ode'on rang, — 
Sang as never soaring tenor ere behind those footlights sang; 
And the himchback, ever after, like a god was hailed with cries, — 
'' Kiny of minstrels, live forever! Shame on fools loho have but eyes.'^' 



Francis Miles Finch. 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

By the flow of the inland river; 

AVlience the fleets of iron had fled. 
Where the blades of the grave-grass 
quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
Under the sod and the dew; 

Waiting the Judgment-Uay; 
Under the one, the Blue ; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat ; 
All with the battle-blood- goi-y, 
In the dusk of eternity meet; 
Under the sod and tlie dew; 

Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 
The desolate mourners go, 



Lovingly laden with flowers, 
Alilce for the friend and the foe; 
Under the sod and the dew; 

Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

So, with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender. 
On the blossoms blooming for all ; 
Under the sod and the (lew ; 

AVaiting the Judgment-Day ; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So. when the smnmer calleth 
On forest and field of grain. 
With an equal murmiu- falleth 
The cooling dri]i of the rain; 
Under the sod and the dew; 

AVaiting the Judgment-Day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
AVet with the rain, the Gray. 



228 



FRENEAU— GANNETT. 



Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done ; 
In the storm of the years, now fad- 
ing, 
No braver battle was won ; 
Under the sod and the dew : 

Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 



No more shall the war-cry sever. 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever 
When they laurel the graves of our 
dead. 
Under the sod and the dew; 

Waiting the Judgment-Day ; 
Love and tears for the Blue; 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



Philip Freneau. 



MAY TO APRIL. 

Without your showers 

1 breed no flowers; 
Each field a barren waste appears ; 

If you don't weep. 

My blossoms sleep. 
They take such pleasure in your tears. 

As your decay 

Made room for May, 
So I must part with all that's mine; 

My balmy breeze. 

My blooming trees. 
To torrid zones tlieir sweets resign. 



For April dead 

My sliades I spread, 
To her I owe my dress so gay; 

Of daughters three 

It falls on me 
To close our triumphs in one day. 

Thus to repose 

All nature goes; 
Month after mouth must find its 
doom ; 

Time on the wing. 

May ends the spring. 
And summer frolics o'er her tomb. 



William Channing Gannett. 



LISTENING FOR GOD. 

I HEAR it often in the dark, 

I hear it in the light, — 
Where is the voice that calls to me 

With such a quiet might '? 
It seems but echo to my thought, 

And yet beyond the stars ; 
It seems a heart-beat in a hush. 

And yet the planet jars. 

Oh, may it be that far within 

My inmost soul there lies 
A spirit-sky, that opens with 

Those voices of surprise ? 
And can it be, by night and day, 

That firmament serene 
Is just the heaven where God himself. 

The. Father, dwells unseen? 



Oh, God within, so close to me 

That every thought is plain, 
Be judge, be friend, be Father still. 

And in thy heaven reign! 
Thy heaven is mine, — my very 
soul ! 

Thy words are sweet and strong; 
They fill my inward silences 

With music and with song. 

They send me challenges to right. 

And loud rebuke my ill; 
They ring my bells of victory. 

They breathe my "Peace, be still I" 
They ever seem to say, " My child; 

Why seek me so all day ? 
Now journey inward to thyself, 

And listen by the way." 



William Lloyd Garrison. 



THE FREE MIND. 

High walls and huge the body may 
confine, 

And iron gates obstruct the pi'isoner's 
gaze, 

And massive bolts may baffle his de- 
sign, 

And vigilant keepers watch his de- 
vious ways ; 

But scorns the innnortal" mind such 
base control; 

No chains can bind it and no cell en- 
close. 



Swifter than light it flies from pole 
to pole. 

And in a flash from earth to heaven 
it goes. 

It leaps from mount to mount, from 
vale to vale 

It wanders plucking honeyed fruits 
and flowers; 

It visits home to hear the fireside tale 

And in sweet converse jjass the joy- 
ous hours ; 

'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, 

And in its watches wearies every star. 



Frank H. Gassaway. 



BAY BILLY. 

'TwAS the last fight at Fredericks- 
burg, — 
Perhaps the day you reck, 
Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, 

Kept Early's men in check. 
Just where Wade Hampton boomed 
away 
The fight went neck and neck. 

All day the weaker wing we held. 

And held it with a will. 
Five several stubborn times we 
charged 

The battery on the hill, 
And five times beaten back, re-formed. 

And kept our coliunn still. 

At last from out the centre fight. 

Spurred up a general's aid. 
" That battery must silenced be! " 

He cried, as past he sped. 
Our colonel simply touched his cap, 

And then, with measured tread, 

To lead the crouching line once more 
The grand old fellow came. 

No wounded man l)ut raised his head 
And strove to gasp his name. 



And those who could not speak nor 
stir, 
" God blessed him" just the same. 

For he was all the world to us, 

That hero gray and grim. 
Right well we knew that fearful slope 

We'd climb with none but him, 
Thovigh while his white head led the 
way 

We'd charge hell's portals in. 

This time we were not half-way up. 
When, midst the storm of shell, 

Our leader, with his sword upraised. 
Beneath our bayonets fell. 

And, as we bore him back, the foe 
Set vip a joyous yell. 

Our hearts went with him. Back 
we swept. 
And when the bugle said 
"Up, charge, again!" no man was 
there 
But hung his dogged head. 
"We've no one left to lead us now," 
The sullen soldiers said. 

Just then before the laggard line 
The colonel's horse we spied, 






Bay Billy with his trappings on, 
His nostrils swelling wide, 

As though still on his gallant back 
The master sat astride. 

Kight royally he took the place 

That was of old his wont, 
And with a neigh that seemed to say, 

Above the battle's brunt, 
" How can the Twenty-Second charge 

If I am not in front?" 

Like statues rooted there we stood. 

And gazed a little space. 
Above that floating mane we missed 

The dear familiar face, 
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, 

And it gave us heart of grace. 

No bugle-call could rouse us all 
As that brave sight had done, 

Down all the battered line we felt 
A lightning impulse run. 

Up! up the hill we followed Bill, 
And we captured every gun ! 

And when upon the conquered height 
Died out the battle's hum. 

Vainly mid living and the dead 
We sought our leader dumb. 

It seemed as if a spectre steed 
To win that day had come. 

And then the dusk and dew of night 

Fell softly o'er the plain, 
As though o'er man's dread work of 
death 
The angels wept again. 
And drew night's curtain gently 
round 
A thousand beds of pain. 

All night the surgeons' torches went. 
The ghastly rows between, — 

All night with solenui step I paced 
The torn and bloody green. 

But who that fought in the big war 
Such dread sights have not seen ? 

At last the morning broke. The lark 
Sang in the merry skies, 



As if to e'en the sleepers there 

It bade awake, and rise ! 
Though naught but that last trump 
of all 

Could ope their heavy eyes. 

And then once more with banners 

gay. 

Stretched out the long brigade. 
Trimly upon the furrowed field 

The troops stood on parade. 
And bravely mid the ranks were 
closed 

The gaps the fight had made. 

Not half the Twenty-Second's men 
AVere in their place that morn; 

And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon 
Stood six brave fellows on. 

Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 
For all between were gone. 

Ah ! who forgets that dreary hour 
When, as with misty eyes. 

To call the old familiar roll 
The solenm sergeant tries, — 

One feels that thumping of the heart 
As no prompt voice replies. 

And as in faltering tone and slow 
The last few names were said. 

Across the field some missing horse 
Toiled up the weary tread, 

It caught the sergeant's eye, and 
quick 
Bay 13illy's name he read. 

Yes I there the old bay hero stood, 
All safe from battle's harms. 

And ere an order could be heard. 
Or the bugle's quick alarms. 

Down all the front, from end to end. 
The troops presented arms ! 

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 
Could still our nughty cheer; 

And ever from that famous day, 
AVlien rang the roll call clear. 

Bay I5illy's name was read, and 
then 
The whole line answered, ' ' Here ! " 



QILDER 



•231 



Richard Watson Gilder. 



THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER 
THE SUN. 

There is nothing new under the svui ; 

There is no new hope or despair; 
The agony just begun 

Is as old as the earth and the air. 
My secret soul of bliss 

Is one with the singing star's, 
And the ancient mountains miss 

No hurt that my being mars. 

I know as I know my life, 

I know as I know my pain. 
That there is no lonely strife, 

That he is mad who would gain 
A separate balm for his woe, 

A single pity and cover: 
The one great God I know 

Hears the same prayer over and 
over. 

I know it because at the portal 

Of heaven I bowed and cried. 
And I said, " Was ever a mortal 

Thus crowned and crucified! 
Afy praise thou hast made my blame; 

My best thou hast made mj worst; 
My good thou hast turned to shame ; 

My drink is a flaming thirst." 

But scarce my prayer was said 

Ere from that place I turned ; 
I trembled, I hung my head. 

My cheek, shame-smitten, burned ; 
For there where I bowed down 

In my boastful agony, 
I thought of thy cross and crown, — 

O Christ ! I remembered thee. 



THE SOWER. 

A SOAVER went forth to sow. 
His eyes were dark with woe; 
He crushed the flowers beneath his 
feet, [sweet. 

Nor smelt the perfume warm and 
That prayed for pity everywhere. 
He came to a field tliat was harried 



By iron, and to heaven laid bare: 
He shook the seed that he carried 
O'er that brown and bladeless ])lace. 
He shook it, as (4od shakes hail . 
Over a doomed land, 
When lightnings interlace 
The sky and the earth, and his wand 
Of love is a tliunder flail. 

Tlius did tliat sower sow; 
His seed was human blood, 
And tears of \\ om(>n and men. 
And I, who near him stood, 
Said : When the crop comes, then 
There will be sobbing and sighing, 
Weeping and wailing and crying. 
Flame and ashes and Avoe. 

It was an autumn day 
When next I Avent that way. 
And what, think you. did I see? 
AYliat Avas it that I heard ? 
The song of a sweet-Aoiced bird ? 
Nay — but tlie songs of many. 
Thrilled through Avith praise 

prayer. 
Of all those voices not any 
^Vere sad of memoi'y : 
And a sea of sunlight flowed, 
And a golden harvest glowed ! 
On my iace I fell down there ; 
And I said: Thou only art wise — 
God of tlie earth and skies ! 
And I tliank thee, again and again. 
For the sower Avhose name is Pain. 



and 



WEAL AND WOE. 

O HIGHEST, strongest, sweetest wom- 
an-soul ! 

Thou boldest in tlie compass of 
thy grace 

All the strange fate and passion of 
thy race ; 

Of the old, primal curse thou 
knoAvest the whole : 
Tliine eyes, too Avise, are heavy with 
the dole. 

The doubt, the dread of all this 
luunan maze; 



232 



GILDER. 



Thou in the virgin morning of thy 

days 
Hast felt the bitter waters o'er tliee 

roll. 
Yet thou knowest, too, the terrible 

delight, 
The still content, aiid solemn 

ecstasy ; 
Whatever sharp, sweet bliss thy 

kind may know. 
Thy spirit is deep for pleasure as for 

woe — 
Deep as the rich, dark-caverned, 

awful sea 
That the keen-winded, glimmering 

dawn makes white. 



TWO LOVE QUATRAINS. 

Not from the whole wide world I 
choose thee — 
Sweetheart, light of the land and 
the sea ! 
The wide, wide world could not en- 
close thee. 
For thou art the whole wide world 
to me. 



Yeaks have flown since I knew thee 
first. 

And I know thee as water is known 
of thirst: 

Yet I knew thee of old at the first 
sweet sight. 

And thou art strange to me, love, to- 
night. 



WHAT WOULD I SAVE THEE 
FROM. 

What would I save thee from, dear 
heart, dear heart ? 
Not from what heaven may send 

thee of its pain; 
Not from fierce sunshine or the 

scathing rain: 
The pang of pleasure; passion's 
wound and smart ; 
Not from the scorn and sorrow of 
thine art; 



Nor loss of faithful friends, nor 

any gain 
Of growth by grief. I would not 

thee restrain 
From needful death. But oh, thou 

other part 
Of me! — through whom the whole 

world I behold. 
As through the blue I see the stars 

above ! 
In whom the world I find, hid 

fold on fold ! 
Thee would I save from this — nay, do 

not move! 
Fear not, it may not flash, the air 

is cold; 
Save thee from this — the lightning 

of my love. 



/ COUNT MY' TIME BY TIMES 
THAT I MEET THEE. 

I COUNT my time by times that 1 
meet thee; 

These are my yesterdays, my mor- 
rows, noons. 

And nights; these my old moons 
and my new moons. 

Slow fly the hours, or fast the 
hours do flee. 
If thou art far from or art near to 
me : 

If thou art far, the birds' tunes 
are no tunes; 

If thou art near, the wintry days 
are Junes, — 

Darkness is light, and soi'row can 
not be. 
Thou art my dream come true, and 
thou ray dream, 

The air I breathe, the world where- 
in I dwell ; 

My journey's end thou art, and 
thou the way ; 
Thou art what I would be, yet only 
seem ; 

Thou art my heaven and thou art 
my hell ; 

Thou art my ever-living judgment- 
day. 



GILDER. 



233 



LOVE'S JEALOUSY. 

Of other men I know no jealousy, 

Nor of the maid who holds thee 
close, oh, close: 

But of the June-red, summer- 
scented rose, 

And of the orange-streaked simset 
sky 
That wins the soul of thee through 
thy deep eye ; 

And of the breeze by thee beloved, 
that goes 
O'er thy dear hair and brow; the 
song that flows 

Into thy heart of hearts, where it 
may die. 
I would I were one moment that 
sweet show 

Of flower; or breeze beloved that 
toucheth all ; 

Or sky that through the summer 
eve doth burn. 
I would I were the song thou lovestso. 

At sound of me to have thine eye- 
lid fall: 

But I would then to something 
human turn. 



A THOUGHT. 

Once, looking from a window on a 

land 
That lay in silence underneath the 

sun; 
A land of broad, green meadows, 

through which poured 
Two rivers, slowly winding to the 

sea, — 
Thus, as I looked, I know not how 

or whence. 
Was borne into my unexpectant soul 
That thought, late learned by anx- 

ious-witted man. 
The infinite patience of the Eternal 

Mind. 



AND WERE THAT BEST? . 

And were that best. Love, dreamless, 

endless sleep ? 
Gone all the fury of the mortal 

day; 
The daylight gone, and gone the 

starry ray! 
And were that best. Love, rest se- 
rene and deep ? 
Gone labor and desire; no arduous 

steep 
To climb, no songs to sing, no 

prayers to pray. 
No help for those who perish by 

the way. 
No laughter 'midst our tears, no 

tears to weep ! 
And were that best, Love, sleep with 

no dear dream, 
Nor memory of any thing in life ? 
Stark death that neither help nor 

hurt can know ! 
Oh, rather. Love, the sorrow-bring- 
ing gleam, 
The living day's long agony and 

strife ! 
Katlier strong love in pain, — the 

wakinir woe ! 



THROUGH LOVE TO LIGHT. 

Through love to light! Oh, wonder- 
ful the way 

That leads from darkness to the per- 
fect day I 

From darkness and from sorrow of 
the night 

To morning that comes singing o'er 
the sea. 

Through love to liijht! Through 
light, O God, to thee, 

Who art the love of love, the eternal 
light of light ! 



234 



GOLDSMITH. 



Oliver Goldsmith. 



[From The Deserted Village.] 
THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 

Near yonder copse, where once 
the garden smiled, 

And still where many a garden flower 
grows wild. 

There, where a few torn shritbs the 
place disclose, 

The village preacher's modest man- 
sion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear. 

And passing rich with forty pounds 
a year ; 

Remote from towns he ran his godly 
race, 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to 
change his place; 

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for 
power 

By doctrines fashioned to the vary- 
ing hour; 

Far other aims his heart had learned 
to prize — 

More beht to raise the wretched than 
to rise. 

His house was known to all the va- 
grant train ; 

He chid their wanderings, but re- 
lieved their pain. 

The long-remembered beggar was his 
guest. 

Whose beard, descending, swept his 
aged breast; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no 
longer proud. 

Claimed kindred there, and had his 
claims allowed ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to 
stay. 

Sate by his fire, and talked the night 
away — 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of 
sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch, and showed 
how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man 
learned to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their 
woe; 



Careless their merits or their faults 

to scan, 
His pity gave, ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was 

his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to vir- 
tue's side; 
But in his duty, prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and 

felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment 

tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring 

to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull 

delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led 

the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life 
was laid. 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns 
dismayed. 

The reverend champion stood. At 
his control 

Despair and anguish fled the strug- 
gling soul ; 

Comfort came down the trembling 
wretch to raise, 

And his last faltering accents whis- 
pered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaf- 
fected grace, 

His looks adorned the venerable 
place ; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with 
double sway. 

And fools, who came to scoff, re- 
mained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious 
man, [ran ; 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic 

E'en children followed, with endear- 
ing wile. 

And plucked his gown, to share the 
good man's smile. 

His ready smile a parent's warmth 
exprest ; 



GOLDSMITH. 



235 



Their welfare pleased him, and their 

cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his 

gi-iefs were given — 
But all his serious thoughts had rest 

in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful 

form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway 

leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling 

clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



[From The Deserted Village.] 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Beside yon straggling fence that 
skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably 

gay, 

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled 

to rule. 
The village master taught his little 

school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to 

view — 
I knew him well, and every truant 

knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned 

to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning 

face; 
Full well they laughed, with coun- 
terfeited glee. 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had 

he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling 

round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he 

frowned ; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in 

aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in 

fault. 
The village all declared how much he 

knew ; 
'T was certain he could write, and 

ciplier too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and 

tides presage, 



And e'en the story ran that he could 

gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned 

his skill, 
For, e'en though vanquished, he 

could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and 

thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged 

around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the 

wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all 

he knew. 



[From The Deserted Village.] 

THE HAPPINESS OF PASSING ONE'S 

AGE IN FAMILIAR PLACES. 

In all my wanderings round this 

world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given 

my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to 

crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay 

me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the 

close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by 

repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends 

us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book- 
learned skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to 

draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and 

horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at 

first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations 

past. 
Here to return — and die at home at 

last. 

O blest retirement! friend to life's 
decline ! 
Retreat from care, that never must 
be mine! 



236 



O OLD SMITH. 



How blest is he who crowns, in shades 
like these, 

A youth of labor, with an age of ease; 

Who quits a world where strong temp- 
tations try, 

And, since 't is hard to combat, learns 
to fly! 

For him no wretches, born to work 
and weep, 

Explore the mine, or tempt the dan- 
gerous deep ; 

No surly porter stands in guilty state, 

To spurn imploring famine from the 
gate; 

But on he moves to meet his latter 
end, 

Angels around befriending virtue's 
friend ; 

Sinks to the grave with unperceived 
decay. 

While resignation gently slopes the 
way ; 

And, all his prospects brightening to 
the last, 

His heaven commences, ere the world 
be past. 



{From The Traveller.] 

FRANCE. 

Gay sprightly land of mirth and 
social ease. 

Pleased with thyself, whom all the 
world can please. 

How often have I led thy sportive 
choir. 

With tuneless pipe, beside the mur- 
muring Loire ! 

Where shading elms along the mar- 
gin grew. 

And freshened from the wave the 
zephyr flew; 

And haply, though my harsh touch, 
faltering still. 

But mocked all tune, and marred the 
dancer's skill. 

Yet would the village praise my won- 
drous power, 

And dance, forgetful of the noontide 
hour. 

Alike all ages : dames of ancient 
days 



Have led their children through the 

mirthful maze. 
And the gay grandsire, skilled in 

gestic lore, 
Has frisked beneath the burden of 

threescore. 
Jio blest a life these thoughtless 

realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away: 
Tlieirs are those arts that mind to 

mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper 

here: 
Honor, that praise which real merit 

gains 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current ; paid from hand 

to hand. 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the 

land : 
From coui-ts, to camps, to cottages it 

strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of 

praise; 
They please, are pleased, they give 

to get esteem. 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to 

what they seem. 
But while this softer art their bliss 

supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warm- 
ly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of 

thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself un- 

blest. 
Leans for all pleasure on another's 

breast. 
Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry 

art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which 

fools impart; [ace, 

Here Vanity assumes her pert grim- 
And trims her robe of frieze with 

copper lace ; 
Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily 

cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once 

a year; 
The mind still turns where shifting 

fashion draws 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self- 
applause. 






GOODALE. 



[From The Oratorio of the Captivity.] 
HOPE. 

The wretch condemned with hfe to 
part, 

Still, still on hope relies; 
And every pang that rends the heart, 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's 
light, 

Adorns and cheers the way. 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter tUiy. 



[From the Oratorio of the Captiriti/.] 
THE PROPHETS' SOXG. 

Our God is all we boast below. 
To Him we turn our eyes; 

And every added weight of woe, 
Shall make our homage rise. 



And though no temple richly dressed, 

Nor sacrifice is here; 
We'll make His temple in our breast. 

And offer up a tear. 



[From The Oratorio of the Captivity.'] 
MEMOn Y. 

O Memohy! thou fond deceiver, 
Still importunate and vain. 

To former joys recurring ever. 
And turning all the past to pain ! 

Then, like the world, the oppressed 
oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's 
woe ; 
And he who wants each otiier bless- 
ing. 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



Dora Read Goodale. 



PilPE GRArX. 

O STILL, white face of perfect 
peace, 
Untouched by passion, freed from 
pain, — 
He who ordained that work should 
cease, 
Took to Himself the ripened grain. 



O noble face ! your beauty bears 
The glory that is wrung from pain, 

The high celestial beauty wears 
Of finished work, of ripened grain. 

Of human care you left no trace. 
No lightest trace of grief or pain, — 

On earth an empty form and face — 
In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 



Elaine Goodale. 



ASHES OF ROSES. 



Soft on the sunset sky 

Bright daylight closes, 
Leaving, when light doth die. 
Pale hues that mingling lie, — 
Ashes of roses. 



When Love's warm sun is set, 

Love's brightness closes; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet. 
In hearts then linger yet 
Ashes of roses. 



Hannah Flagg Gould. 



THE SOUL'S FAREWELL. 

It must be so, poor, fading, mortal 
thing! 
And now we part, thou i^allid form 
of clay I 
Thy hold is broken — I unfurl my 
wing; 
And from the dust the spirit must 
away ! 

As thou at night, hast thrown thy 
vesture by, 
Tired with the day, to seek thy 
wonted rest, 
Fatigued with time's vain round, 'tis 
thus that I 
Of thee, frail covering, myself di- 
vest. 

Thou knowest, while journeying in 
this thorny road, 
How oft we've sighed and strug- 
gled to be twain ; 
How I have longed to drop my earth- 
ly load, 
And thou, to rest thee from thy 
toil and pain. 

Then he, who severs our mysterious 
tie. 
Is a kind angel, granting each re- 
lease ; 
He'll seal thy quivering lip and 
sunken eye. 
And stamp thy brow with ever- 
lasting peace. 

When thou hast lost the beauty that I 
gave. 
And life's gay scenes no more will 
give thee place, 
Thou may'st retire within the secret 
grave. 
Where none shall look upon thine 
altered face. 

But I am summoned to the eternal 
throne. 
To meet the presence of the King 
most high; 



I go to stand unshrouded and alone, 
Full in the light of God's all-search- 
ing eye. 

There must the deeds which we to- 
gether wrought, 
Be all remembered — each a wit- 
ness made ; 
The outward action and the secret 
thought 
Before the silent soul must there 
be weighed. 

Lo! I behold the seraph throng de- 
scend 
To waft me up where love and 
mercy dw.ell; 
Away, vain fears ! the Judge will be 
my friend ; 
It is my Father calls — pale clay, 
farewell ! 



A NAME IN THE SAND. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name — the year — the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind 1 cast: 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, nietliought, 'twill shortly be 
With every mark on earth trom me: 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 

Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been to be no more. 
Of me — my day — the name I bore. 

To leave nor track nor trace. 

And yet, with Him wiio counts the 

sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands. 

Inscribed against my name, 

Of all this mortal part has wrought; 

Of all this thinking soul has thought; 

And from these fleeting moments 

caught 

For glory or for shame. 



James Grahame. 



IFrom The Sabbath.] 
SABBATH MORNING. 

How still the morning of the hal- 
lowed day! 

Mute is the voice of rural labor, 
hushed 

The ploughboy's whistle and the 
milkmaid's song. 

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy 
wreath 

Of tedded grass, mingled with fading 
flowers, 

That yester-morn bloomed waving 
in the breeze. 

Sounds the most faint attract the 
ear, — the hum 

Of early bee, the trickling of the 
dew, 

The distant bleating midway up the 
hill. 

Calmness seems throned on yon un- 
moving cloud. 

To him who wanders o'er the upland 
leas, 

The blackbird's note comes mellower 
from the dale ; 

And sweeter from the sky the glad- 
some lark 

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the 
lulling brook 

Murmurs more gently down the 
deep-sunk glen; 

While from yon lowly roof, whose 
curling smoke 

O'ermounts the mist, is heard at in- 
tervals 

The voice of psalms, the simple song 
of praise. 
With dove-like wings Peace o'er 
yon village broods : 

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the 
anvil's din 

Hath ceased ; all, all around is quiet- 
ness. 

Less fearful on this day, the limping 
hare 



Stops, and looks back, and stops, and 

looks on man. 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn 

horse, set free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at 

large ; 
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he 

rolls. 
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the 

morning ray. 
But chiefly man the day of rest 

enjoys. 
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor 

man's day. 
On other days, the man of toil is 

doomed 
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the 

ground 
Both seat and board, screened from 

the winter's cold 
And summer's heat by neighboring 

hedge or tree; 
But on this day, embosomed in his 

home. 
He shares the frugal meal with those 

he loves; 
With those he loves he shares the 

heartfelt joy 
Of giving thanks to God, — not 

thanks of form, 
A word and a grimace, but reverently, 
With covered face and upward ear- 
nest eye. 
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor 

man's day: 
The pale mechanic now has leave to 

breathe 
The morning air, pure from the city's 

smoke ; 
While wandering slowly up the river- 
side. 
He meditates on Him whose power 

he niarks 
In each green tree that proudly 

spreads the bough, 
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that 

bloom 
Around the roots. 



240 



GRAY. 



Elinor Gray. 



ISOLATION. 



We walk alone through all life's va- 
rious ways, 

Through light and darkness, sorrow, 
joy, and change; 

And greeting each to each, through 
passing days, 

Still we are strange. 

We hold our dear ones with a firm, 

strong grasp ; 
We hear their voices, look into their 

eyes; 
And yet, betwixt us in that clinging 

clasp 

A distance lies. 

We cannot know their hearts, how- 

e'er we may 
Mingle thought, aspiration, hope and 

prayer; 



We cannot reach them, and in vain 
essay 

To enter there. 

Still, in each heart of hearts a hid- 
den deep 

Lies, never fathomed by its dearest, 
best. 

With closest care our purest thoughts 
we keep. 

And tenderest. 



But, blessed thought! we shall not 

always so 
In darkness and in sadness walk 

alone; 
There comes a glorious day when we 

shall know 

As we are known. 



Thomas Gray. 



ELEGY l2\ A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 

TuE curfew tolls the knell of parting 

day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er 

the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his 

weaiy way, 
And leaves the world to darkness 

and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape 

on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness 

holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his 

droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 

folds : 



Save that from yonder ivy-mantled 

tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon 

complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret 

bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
tree's shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a 
mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing 

morn, 
The swallow twittering from the 

straw-built shed. 



GRAY. 



241 



The cock's shrill clarion, or the echo- 
ing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth 
shall burn, [care : 

Or busy housewife ply her evening 

No children run to lisp their sire's 
return. 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 
share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 

yield, 
Their furroAV oft the stubborn glebe 

has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team 

afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their 

sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful 
toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny ob- 
scure! [smile 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 

The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 

power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth 

e'er gave. 
Await alike the inevitable hour, — 
The paths of glory lead but to the 

grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these 

the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies 

raise. 
Where through the long-drawn aisle 

and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note 

of praise. 

Can storied lu-n or animated bust. 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting 

breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent 

dust, 
Or Flattei y soothe the dull cold ear of 

death ? 



Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celes- 
tial fire; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might 
have swayed. 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 

But knowledge to their eyes her am- 
ple page 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er 
unroll; 

Chill penury repressed their noble 
rage. 

And froze the genial current of the 
soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean 

bear: 
Full many a flower is born to blush 

unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert 

air. 

Some village Hampden, that with 
dauntless breast. 

The little tyrant of his fields with- 
stood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here 
may rest. 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun- 
try's blood. 

The applause of list'ning senates to 
command. 

The threats of pain and ruin to de- 
spise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read tlieir history in a nation's 
eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed 
alone 

Their growing virtues, but their 
crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter 
to a throne. 

And shut the gates of mercy on man- 
kind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious 

truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous 

shame, 



242 



GRAY. 



Or heap the shrine of luxury and 

pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's 

flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's igno- 
ble strife 

Their sober wishes never learned to 
stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestei'ed vale of 
life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to 

protect 
Some frail memorial still erected 

nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 

sculpture decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the 

unlettered Muse, 
The jalace of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she 

strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a 
prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e'er re- 
signed. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheer- 
ful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul 
relies; 

Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
quires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of 
Nature cries. 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted 
fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the un- 

honored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale 

relate; [led. 

If chance, by lonely contemplation 
.Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 

fate, — 



Haply some hoary-headed swain may 

say. 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of 

dawn. 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews 

away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland 

lawn; 

There at the foot of yonder nodding 
beech 

That wreathes its old fantastic roots 
so high, 

His listless length at noon-tide would 
he stretch. 

And pore upon the brook that bab- 
bles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as 

in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he 

would rove; 
NoAV drooping, woful-wan, like one 

forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in 

hoi)eless love. 

One morn 1 missed him on the 'cus- 
tomed hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favor- 
ite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the 
rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood 
was he; 

The next Avith dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church-Avay jjath 

we saw him borne, — 
Approach and read (for thou canst 

read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon 

aged thorn. 



THE EPITAPH, 

Here rests his head upon the lap of 
earth 

A youth, to for time and to fame un- 
known ; 

Fair Science f roAvned not on his hum- 
ble birth. 

And Melancholy marked him for her 
own. 



GRAY. 



243 



Large was his bounty, and bis soul 

sincere ; 
Heaven did a recompense as largely 

send : 
He gave to inlsery all he had, a tear, 
He gained from Heaven, 't was all he 

wished, a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their 

dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope 

repose, ) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



ODE ON THE SPRING. 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed hours 

Fair Venus' train, appear, 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers 

And wake the purple year! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

Tbe untaught harmony of spring: 
While, whispering pleasure as they tly, 
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue 
sky' 

Their gathered fragrance fling. 

Where'er the oak's thick branches 
stretch 
A broader, browner shade, 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown 
beech 
O'er canopies the glade. 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and 
think 
(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
How low, how little are the proud. 
How indigent the great ; 

Still is the toiling hand of Care; 

The panting herds repose: 
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows : 
The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honeyed spring 

And float amid the liquid noon : 
Some lightly o'er the current skim. 
Some show their gaily-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 



To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of man : 
And they that creep, and they that fly 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter thro' life's little day. 

In fortune's varying colors drest: 
Brushed by the hand of rough mis- 
chance 
Or chilled by age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply: 
Poor moralist! and what art thou ? 

A solitary fly 1 
Thy joys no glittering female meets. 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 

No painted plumage to display: 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone, — 

We frolic while 'tis May. 



THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM 
VICISSITUDE. 

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
Soft Reflection's hand can trace. 
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 

A melancholy grace; 
While hope prolongs our happier 

hour. 
Or deepest shades, that dimly lower 
And blacken round our weary way. 
Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads. 

See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
Behind the steps that Misery treads 

Approaching Comfort view: 
The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
Chastised by sabler tints of woe. 
And blended form, with artful strife, 
The strength and harmony of life. 

See the wretch that long has tost 

On the thorny bed of pain. 
At length repair his vigor lost 

And breathe and walk again: 
The meanest floweret of the vale. 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies. 
To him are opening Paradise. 



244 



ORA i: 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
ETON. 

Yk distant spires, ye antique towers, 

Tliat crown the wat'ry glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade! 
And ye, that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse 
below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose 

flowers among 
AVanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver winding way. 

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain! 
Where once my careless childhood 
strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome 
wing. 
My weary soul they seem to sooth, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Tliames (for thou hast 
seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green. 

The paths of pleasure trace), 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthral ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on earnest business bent, 

Their murm'ring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring con- 
straint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare de- 
scry, 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind. 

And snatch a fearful joy. 



Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast: 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigor born; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbeis light 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas! regardless of their doom 

The little victims play! 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate 
And black misfortune's baleful 
train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush 

stand. 
To seize their prey, the murderous 
band ! 
Ah, tell them they are men! 

These shall the fury passions tear. 

The vultures of the mind. 
Disdainful anger, pallid fear. 

And shame that skulks behind; 
Or pining love shall waste their 

youth. 
Or jealousy with rankling tooth 

That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And envy wan, and faded care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless despair, 

And sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall temi)t to rise, 

Tlien whirl the wretch from high 
To bitter scorn a sacrifice 

And grinning infamy. 
The stings of "falsehood those shall 

try. 
And hard unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to 
flow; 
And keen remorse with blood defiled. 
And moody madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen: 





aUSTAFSON. 



245 




This racks the joints, this fires the 

veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
Lo, poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul v/ith icy hand, 

And slow-consuming age. 

To each his sufferings: all are men. 
Condemned alike to groan ; 



The tender for another's pain, 
The imfeeling for his own. 

Yet, ah ! why should they know their 
fate, 

Since sorrow never comes too late. 
And happiness too swiftly flies ? 

Thought would destroy their para- 
disc ! 

No more, — where ignorance is bliss, 
'Tis folly to be wise. 



Zadel Barnes Gustafson. 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAG HAN. 

One reads tome Macaulay's "Lays" 
With fervid voice, intoning well 

The poet's fire, the vocal grace; 
They hold me like a spell. 

'Twere marvel if in human veins 

Could beat a pulse so cold 
It would not quicken to the strains, 
The flying, fiery strains, that tell 
How Rojiians "kept the bridge so 
Avell 
In the brave days of old." 

The while I listened, till my blood. 
Plunged in the poet's martial mood, 

Rushed in my veins like wine, 
1 prayed, — to One who hears, I wis; 
"Give me one breath of power like 
this 

To sing of rittston mine! " 

A child looks up the ragged shaft, 
A boy whose meagre frame 

Shrinks as he hears the roaring 
draught 
That feeds the eager flame. 

He has a single chance; the stakes 

Of life show death at bay 
One moment ; then his comrade takes 

The hope he casts away. 

For while his trembling hand is raised. 
And while his sweet eyes shine, 

There swells above the love of life 
The rush of love divine, — 



The thought of those unwarned, to 
whom 
Death steals along the mine. 

little Martin Craghan ! 
I reck not if you swore, 

Ijike Porsena of ( 'lusium. 

By gods of mythic lore ; 
But w^ell I ween as great a heart 

Beat your small bosom sore. 

And that your bare brown feet scarce 
felt 
The way they bounded o'er. 

1 know you were a hero then, 
Whate'er you were before; 

And in God's sight your flying feet 
Made white the cavern floor. 

The while he speeds that darksome 
way, 

Hope paints upon his fears 
Soft visions of the light of day; 

Faint songs of birds he hears; 
In summer breeze his tangled curls 

Are blown about his ears. 

He sees the men ; he warns ; and now. 

His duty bravely done, 
Sweet hope may paint the fairest 
scene 

That spreads beneath the sun. 

Back to the burning shaft he flies; 

There bounding pulses fail ; 
The light forsakes his lifted eyes; 

The glowing cheek is pale. 



246 



GUSTAFSON. 



With wheeling, whirHng, hungry 
flame, 

The seething shaft is rife: 
Where sohd chains drip liquid fire, 

What chance for human life ? 

To die with tliose he hoped to save. 
Back, back, through heat and 
gloom. 

To find a wall, — and Death and he 
Shut in the larger tomb I 

He pleaded to be taken in 
As closer rolled the smoke; 

In deathful vapors they could hear 
His piteous accents choke. 

And they, with shaking voice, re- 
fused ; 
And then the young heart broke. . 

Oh love of life! God made it strong, 
And knows how close it pressed; 

And death to those who love life 
least 
Is scarce a welcome guest. 

One thought of the poor wife, whose 
head 

Last night lay on his breast: 
A quiver runs through lii^s that morn 

By children's lips caressed. 

These things the sweet strong 
thoughts of home, — 

Though but a wretched place. 
To which the sad-eyed miners come 

AVith Labor's laggard pace, — 
Remembered in the cavern gloom. 

Illume the haggard face, — 

Ilhmied their faces, steeled each 
heart. 

O God ! what mysteries 
Of brave and base make sum and part 

Of human histories ! 
What will not thy poor creatures do 

To buy an hour of breath I 
Well for us all some souls are true 

Above the fear of death ! 

He wept a little,— for they heard 
The sound of sobs, the sighs 

That breathed of martyrdom complete 
Unseen of mortal eyes, — 



And then, no longer swift, his feet 
Passed down the galleries. 

He crept and crouched beside his 
nude. 
Led by its dying moan; 
He touched it feebly with a hand 

That shook like palsy's own. 
God grant the touch had power to 
make 
The child feel less alone ! 

Who knoweth every heart. He knows 
What moved the boyish mind; 

What longings grew to passion-throes 
For dear ones left behind ; 

How hardly youth and youth's de- 
sires 
Their hold of life resigned. 

Perhaps the little fellow felt 
As brave Horatius thought, 

When for those dearer lioman lives 
He held his own as nought. 

For how could boy die better 

Than facing fearful fires 
To save poor women's husbands 

And helpless children's sires ? 

Death leaned upon him heavily; 

But Love, more mighty still. — 
She lent him slender lease of life 

To work her tender will. 

He felt with sightless, sentient hand 
Along the wall and ground, 

And there the rude and simple page 
For his sweet piu'pose found. 

O'erwritten with the names he loved. 

Clasped to his little side. 
Dim eyes the wooden record read 

Hours after he had died. 

Thus from all knowledge of his kind. 
In darkness lone and vast. 

From life to death, from death to life. 
The little hero passed. 

And, while they listened for the feet 
That would return no more. 

Far off they fell in music sweet 
Upon another shore. 



Samuel Miller Hageman. 



ONL Y. 

Only a little child, 
Crushed to death to-day in the mart ; 
But the whole unhorizoned kingdom 
of heaven 

Was in that little heart. 

Only a grain of sand, 
ISwirled up where the sea lies spent ; 
But it holds wherever it be in space 

The poise of a continent. 

Only a minute gone. 
That to think of now is vain ; 
Ah! that was the minute without 
whose link 

Had dropped Eternity's chain. 



THE TWO GREAT CITIES. 

Side by side rise the two great cities. 

Afar on the traveller's sight; 
One, black with the dust of lalsor. 

One, solemnly still and white. 
Apart, and yet together. 

They are reached in a dying breath, 
But a river flows between them, 

And the river's name is — Death 

Apart, and yet together. 

Together, and yet apart. 
As the child may die at midnight 

On the mother's living heart. 
So close come the two great cities. 

With only the river between ; 
And the grass in the one is trami^led, 

But the grass in the other is green. 



The hills with uncovered foreheads. 

Like the disciples meet. 
While ever the flowing water 

Is washing their hallowed feet. 
And out on the glassy ocean, 

The sails in the golden gloom 
Seem to me but moving shadows 

Of the white emmarbled tomb. 

Anon, from the hut and the palace 
Anon, from early till late, 

They come, rich and jjoor together. 
Asking alms at thy beautiful gate. 

And never had life a guerdon 

* So welcome to all to give. 

In the land where the living are dy- 
ing. 
As the land where the dead may 
live. 

O silent city of refuge 

On the way to the city o'erhead! 
The gleam of thy marble milestones 

Tells the distance we are from the 
dead. 
Full of feet, but a city untrodden, 

Full of hands, but a city vmbidlt. 
Full of strangers who know not even 

That theirlife-cup lies there spilt. 

They know not the tomb from the 
palace. 
They dream not they ever have 
died : 
God be thanked they never will know 
it 
Till they live on the other side ! 
From the doors that death shut coldly 
On the face of their last lone woe : 
They came to thy glades for shelter 
Who had nowhere else to go. 



248 



HALLECK. 



Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

At midnight in his guarded tent, 
The Turk was dreaming of the 
horn- 
When Greece, her linee in suppliance 
bent, 
Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court 

he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 
In dreams his song of triumph 
heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
Then pressed that monarch's throne 

— a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of 
wing. 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands 

stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood 
On old Platasa's day; 
And now there breathed that haunted 

air 
The sons of sires who conquered 

there. 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk 
awoke; 
That bright dream was his last; 
He woke to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms! they come! the Greek! 
the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame and 

smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre- 
stroke. 
And death-shots falling thick and 
fast 
As lightnings from the mountain- 
cloud ; 



And heard, with voice as trumpet 
loud, 
Bozzaris cheer his band. 

" Strike — till the last armed foe ex- 
pires ; 

Strike — for your altars and your 
fires; 

Strike — for the green graves of your 
sires : 
God, and your native land! " 

They fought, — like brave men, long 
and well; 
They piled that ground with Mos- 
lem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their prouil hur- 
rah. 
And the red field was Avon : 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 
Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death! 
Come to the mother's, when she 

feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's 

breath ; 
Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in Consumption's ghastly 

form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean 

storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and 

warm. 
With banquet-song, and dance, 

and wine; 
And thou art terrible — the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the 

bier. 
And all we know, or dream, or fear, 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 
Has won the battle for the free. 



HALLECK. 



249 



Thy voice sounds like a prophet's 

word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is 

wrought — 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood- 
bought — 
Come in her crowning hour — and 
then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of 

palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
Blew o'er the Haytien seas. 



Bozzaris ! with the storied brave, 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 
plume. 
Like torn branch from death's leaf- 
less tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone. 
For thee her poets' lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music 

breathed : 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch, and cottage bed; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her 
tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys. 



And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
For thou art Freedom's now, ami 

Fame's, 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 



B URNS. 



W11.D rose of Alloway! my thanks; 

Thou mind'st me of that autumn 
noon 
When first we met upon " the banks 

And bi-aes o' bonny Doon." 

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's 
bough. 
My sunny hour was glad and brief 
We've crossed the winter sea, and 
thou 
Art withered — flower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom l)e 
mine — 
The doom of all things wrought of 
clay ? 
And withered my life's leaf like 
thine. 
Wild rose of Alloway ? 

Not so his memory for whose sake 
My bosom bore thee far and long. 

His, who a humbler flower could 
make 
Immortal as his song. 

The memory of Bums — a name 
That calls, when brimmed her fes- 
tal cup, 

A nation's glory and her shame. 
In silent sadness up. 

A nation's glory — be the rest 

Forgot — she's canonized his mind, 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of humankind. 

I've stood beside the cottage-bed 
Where the bard-peasant first drew 
breath : 




250 



HALLECK. 



A straw-thatched roof above his 
head, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 

And I have stood beside the pile, 
His monument — that tells to heaven 

The homage of earth's proudest isle 
To that bard-peasant given. 

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that 
spot. 
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming 
hour; 
And know, however low his lot, 
A poet's pride and power; 

The pride that lifted Burns from 
earth. 
The power that gave a child of 
song 
Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
The rich, the brave, the strong; 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 

Despair — thy name is written on 
Tlie roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than 
his. 

And longer scrolls, and louder lyres. 
And lays lit up Avith Poesy's 

Purer and holier fires; 

Yet read the names that know not 
death ; 
Few nobler ones than Burns are 
there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 
Than that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 
In which the answering heart would 
speak. 
Thought, word, that bids the warm 
tear start. 
Or the smile light the cheek ; 

And his that music to whose tone 
The common pulse of man keeps 
time. 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
In cold or sunny clime. 



And who hath heard his song, nor 
knelt 

Before its spell with willing knee, 
And listened, and believed, and felt 

The poet's mastery 

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and 
storm. 
O'er the heart's sunshine and its 
showers. 
O'er Passion's moments, bright and 
warm, 
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; 

On fields where brave men "die or 
do," 
In halls where rings the banquet's 
mirth, 
Where mourners weep, where lovers 
woo, 
From throne to cottage hearth ? 

What sweet tears dim the eye unshed. 
What wild vows falter on the 
tongue. 
When "(Scots wha hae wi' AVallace 
bled," 
Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 
Come with his Cotter's hymn of 
praise, 
And dreams of youth, and truth, and 
love 
With "Logan's" banks and braes. 

And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination's world of air. 

And our own world, its gloom and 
glee. 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there. 

And death's sublimity. 

And Burns, though brief the race he 
ran. 
Though rough and dark the path 
he trod — 
Lived, died, in form and soul a man, 
The image of his God. 



HALLECK. 



251 



Tlirough care, and pain, and want, 
and woe, 
With woimds that only death could 
heal. 
Tortures the poor alone can know. 
The proud alone can feel ; 

He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen. 

And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions 
strong, 

A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 

Of coward and of slave ; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 
That could not fear and would not 

AVere written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Piaise to the bard! his words are 
driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds 
sown, 
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good. 
As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral-day. 
Men stand his cold earth-couch 
around, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 
The last, the hallowed home of 
one 

Who lives upon all memories, 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines to no code or creed con- 
fined — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 



Sages, with Wisdom's garland 
wreathed. 
Crowned kings, and mitred priests 
of power. 
And warriors with their bright swords 
sheathed. 
The mightiest of the hour. 

And lowlier names, whose humble 
home 
Is lit by fortune's dimmer star. 
Are there — o'er wave and mountain 
come. 
From coiuitries near and far ; 

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have 
pressed [sand. 

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's 
Or trod the piled leaves of the west, 

My own green forest land. 

All ask the cottage of his birth. 
Gaze on the scenes he loved and 
sung. 

And gather feelings not of earth 
His field and streams among. 

They linger by the Doon's low trees. 
And pastoral Nith, and wooded 
Ayr, 
And round thy sepulchres, Dum- 
fries ! 
The Poet's tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor's art. 
His funeral columns, wreaths, and 
urns ? 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns ? 



ON 



THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ROD- 
MAN DRAKE. 



Green be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days! 

None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying. 
From eyes unused to weep. 

And long where thou art lying, 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 



^ 



^ii^' 



252 



HARTE. 



When hearts, whose truth was prov- 
en, 

Like thine, are laid in earth, 
Tliere should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth; 

And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
Whose weal and wo were thine ; 



It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it. 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



Francis Bret Harte. 



TO A SEA-BIRD. 

Sauntering hither on listless wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea. 
Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
The bar that thunders, the shale 
that rings, — 
Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that's 
new ; 
Storjns and wrecks are old things 
to thee; 
Sick am I of these changes too; 
Little to care for, little to rixe, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

All of thy wanderings, far and near. 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 

All of my journeyings end them here, 

This our tether must be our cheer, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, 
Something in common, old frend, 
have we ; 
Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest, 
I to the waters look for rest, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



LONE MOUNTAIN CEMETERY. 

This is that hill of awe 
That Persian Sindbad saAf , — 

The mount magnetic ; 
And on its seaward face. 
Scattered along its base, 

The wrecks iDrophetic. 

Here come the argosies 
Blown by each idle breeze. 

To and fro shifting; 
Yet to the hill of Fate 
All drawing, soon or late, — 

Day by day drifting, — 

Drifting forever here 
Barks that for many a year 

Braved wind and weather; 
Shallops but yesterday 
Launched on yon shining bay, — 

Drawn all together. 

This is the end of all : 
Sun thyself by the wall, 

O poorer Hiudbad! 
Envy not Sindbad's fame: 
Here come alike the same, 

Hindbad and Sindbad. 




HAY. 



253 



John Hay. 



THE PRAIRIE. 



The skies are blue above my head, 

The j)rairle green below, 
And flickering o'er the tufted grass 

The shifting shadows go. 
Vague-sailing, where the feathery 
clouds 

Fleck white the tranquil skies, 
Black javelins darting where aloft 

The whirling pheasant flies. 

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance 

The dim horizon bounds. 
Where all the air is resonant 

With sleepy summer sounds. 
The life that sings among the flowers, 

The lisping of the breeze, 
The hot cicala's sultry cry. 

The murmurous dreamy bees. 

The butterfly, — a flying flower — 

Wheels swift in flashing rings, 
And flutters round his quiet kin. 

With brave flame-mottled wings. 
The wild pinks burst in crimson fire, 

The jjlilox' bright clusters shine, 
And prairie-cups are swinging free 

To spill their airy wine. 

And lavishly beneath the sun. 

In liberal splendor rolled. 
The fennel fills the dipping plain 

With floods of flowery gold : 
And M'idely weaves the iron-weed 

A woof of purple dyes 
Where Autumn's royal feet may tread 

When bankrupt Summer flies. 

In verdurous tumidt far away 

The prairie-billows gleam. 
Upon their crests in blessing rests 

The noontide's gracious beam. 
Low quivering vapors steaming dim, 

The level splendors break 
Where languid lilies deck the rim 

Of some land-circled lake. 

Far in the East like low-hung clouds 
The waving woodlands lie : 



Far in the West the glowing plain 
Melts warjnly in the sky. 

No accent wounds the reverent air. 
No footprint dints the sod, — 

Low in the light the prairie lies 
Rapt in a dream of God. 



TN A GRAVE YAIiD. 

Ix the dewy depths of the graveyard 

I lie in the tangled grass. 
And watch in the sea of azure. 

The white cloud-islands pass. 

The birds in the rustling branches 

Sing gaily overhead ; 
Gray stones like sentinel spectres 

Are guarding the silent dead. 

The early flowers sleep shaded 

In the cool green noonday glooms ; 

The broken light falls shuddering 
On the cold white face of the tombs. 

Without, the world is smiling 
In the infinite love of God, 

But the sunlight fails and falters 
When it falls on the churchyard 
sod. 

On me the joyous rapture 
Of a heart's first love is shed, 

But it falls on my heart as coldly 
As sunlight on the dead. 



REMORSE. 

Sad is the thought of sunniest days 

Of love and I'apture perished. 
And shine through memory's tearful 
haze 

The eyes once fondliest cherished. 
Reproachful is the ghost of toys 

That channed while life was 
wasted. 
But saddest is the thought of joys 

That never yet were tasted. 




254 



HAY. 



Sail is tlie vague and tender dream 


" I loved, — and, blind with passion- 


Of dead love's lingering kisses, 


ate love, I fell. 


To crushed hearts haloed by the 


Love brought me down to death, and 


gleam 


death to Hell. 


Of unreturning blisses ; 


For God is just, and death for sin is 


Deep mourns the soul in anguished 


well. 


pride 




For the pitiless death that won 


" I do not rage against his high de- 


them, — 


cree, 


But the saddest wail is for lips that 


Nor for myself do ask that grace shall 


died 


be: 


With the virgin dew upon them. 


But for my love on earth who mom-ns 




for me. 




"Great Spirit! Let me see my love 


ON THE BLUFF. 


again 




And comfort him one hour, and I 


O GKAND1.Y flowing River! 


were fain 


O silver-gliding River! 


To pay a thousand years of fire and 


Thy springing willows shiver 


pain." 


In the sunset as of old ; 




They shiver in the silence 


Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, 


Of the willow-whitened islands. 


repent 


While the sun-bars and the sand-bars 


That wild vow! Look, the dial fin- 


Fill air and wave with gold. 


ger's bent 




Down to the last hour of thy punish- 


O gay, oblivious River ! 


ment! " 


O sunset-kindled River! 




Do you remember ever 


But still she wailed, "I jiray thee, let 


The eyes and skies so blue 


me go! 


On a summer day that shone here, 


I cannot rise to peace and leave him 


When we were all alone here. 


so. 


And the blue eyes were too wise 


O, let me soothe him in his bitter 


To speak the love they knew ? 


woe! " 


O stern impassive River ! 


The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 


O still unanswering River ! 


And upward, joyous, like a rising 


The shivering willows quiver 


star. 


As the night-winds moan and rave. 


She rose and vanished in the ether 


From the past a voice is calling, 


far. 


From heaven a star is falling, 




And dew swells in the bluebells 


But soon adown the dying sunset 


Above her hillside grave. 


sailing, 




And like a woimded bird her pinions 




trail in"'. 




She fluttered back, with broken- 


A IFOMAX'S LOVE. 


hearted wailing. 


A SENTINEL angel sitting high in 


She sobbed, " I found him by the 


glory 


summer sea 


Heard this shrill wail ring out from 


Reclined, his head upon a maiden's 


Purgatory : 


knee, — 


" Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my 


She curled his hair and kissed him. 


story ! 


Woe is me! " 



HAYNE. 



255 



She wept. " Now let my punish- 
ment begin ! 

I have been fond and foolisli. Let 
me in 

To expiate my sorrow and my sin."' 

Tlie angel answered, " Nay, sad soul, 

go higher! 
To be deceived in your true heart's 

desire 
Was bitterer than a thousand years of 

fire! " 



LAG RIM AS. 

God send me tears ! 
Loose the fierce band that binds my 

tired brain, 
Give me tlie melting heart of other 
years, 
And let me weep again ! 

Before me pass 
The shapes of things inexorably true. 
Gone is the sparkle of transforming 
dew 

From every blade of grass. 



In life's high noon 
Aimless I stand, my promised task 

undone. 
And raise my hot eyes to the angiy 
sun 
That will go down too soon. 

Turned into gall 
Are the sweet joys of childhood's 

sunny reign ; 
And memory is a torture, love a 
chain 
That binds my life in thrall. 

And childhood's pain 
Could to me now the purest rapture 

yield; 
I pray for tears as in his parching 
field 
The husbandman for rain. 

We pray in vain! 
The sullen sky flings down its blaze 

of brass ; 
The joys of life all scorched and 
withering pass ; 
I shall not weep again. 



Paul Hamilton Hayne. 

A SUMMER MOOD. 



Ah me ! for evermore, for evermore 
These human hearts of om-s must 
yearn and sigh. 
While down the dells and up the 
murmurous shore 
Nature renews her immortality. 

The heavens of June stretch calm and 
bland above, 
June roses blush with tints of ori- 
ent skies. 
But we, by graves of joy, desire, and 
love. 
Mourn in a world which breathes 
of Paradise ! 

The simshiue mocks the tears it may 

not dry, 
The breezes — tricksy couriers of the 

air, — 



Child-roisterers winged, and lightly 
fluttering by — 
Blow their gay trumpets in the face 
of care ; 

And bolder winds, the deep sky's 
jaassionate speech. 
Woven into rhythmic raptures of 
desire, 
Or fugues of mystic victory, sadly 
reach 
Our humbled souls, to rack, not 
raise them higher! 

The field-birds seem to twit us as tbey 
pass 
With their small blisses, piped so 
clear and loud ; 
The cricket triumphs o'er us in the 
grass, 
And the lark, glancing beamlike up 
the cloud. 



256 



HAYNE. 



Sings us to scorn with his keen rhap- 
sodies: 
Small things and great vmconscioiis 
tauntings bring 
To edge our cares, while we, the 
jjroud and wise, 
Envy the insect's joy, the birdling's 
wing ! 

And thus for evermore, till time shall 
cease. 
Man's soul and Nature's — each a 
separate sphere — 
Revolves, the one in discord, one in 
peace. 
And who shall make the solemn 
mystery clear ? 



BY THE AUTUMN SEA. 

Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, 
.Sad as the evening's tender gray, 
By the latest lustre of sunset kissed. 
That wavers and wanes through an 

amber mist, — 
There cometh a dream of the past to 

me. 
On the desert sands, by the autumn 

sea. 

All heaven is wrapped in a mystic 

veil. 
And the face of the ocean is dim and 

pale. 
And there rises a wind from the chill 

northwest. 
That seeineth the wail of a soul's 

unrest. 
As the twilight falls, and the vapors 

flee 
Far over the wastes of the autumn 

sea. 

A single ship through the gloaming 

glides 
Upborne on the swell of the seaward 

tides; 
And above the gleam of her topmost 

spar 
Are the virgin eyes of the vesper star 
That shine with an angel's ruth on 

me, — 
A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 



The wings of the ghostly beach-birds 
gleam 

Through the shimmering surf, and 
the curlew's scream 

Falls faintly shrill from the darkeniug 
height ; 

The first weird sigh on the lips of 
Night 

Breathes low through the sedge and 
the blasted tree. 

With a murnuir of doom, by the au- 
tumn sea. 

Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning 
main. 

Your gloom but deepens this hmudn 
I)ain ; 

Those waves seem big with a name- 
less care. 

That sky is a type of the heart's 
despair. 

As I linger and muse by the sombre 
lea. 

And the night-shades close on the 
autumn sea. 



THE WOODLAXD. 

Yon woodland, like a human mind. 
Has many a phase of dark and 
light; 
Now dim with shadows wandering 
blind, 
Now radiant with fair shapes of 
light; 

They softly come, they softly go. 
Capricious as the vagrant wind, — 

Nature's vague thoughts in gloom or 
glow, 
That leave no airiest trace behind. 

No trace, no trace; yet wherefore 
thus 
Do shade and beam our spirits 
stir? 
Ah! Nature may be cold to us. 

But we are strangely moved by her ! 

The wild bird's strain, the breezy 
spray. 
Each hour with sure earth-changes 
rife, 



HAYNE. 



257 



Hint more than all the sages say, 
Or poets sing, of death or life! 

For, truth half drawn from Nature's 
breast, 
Through subtlest types of form and 
tone, 
Outweigh what man at most hath 
guessed, 
While heeding his own heart alone. 

And midway betwixt heaven and us 
Stands Nature, in her fadeless grace. 

Still pointing to our Father's house. 
His glory on her mystic face! 



WINDLESS BAIN. 

The rain, the desolate rain! 

Ceaseless, and solemn, and chill ! 
How it drips on the misty pane, 

IIow it drenches the darkened sill! 
O scene of sorrow and dearth! 

I would that the wind awaking 
To a fierce and gusty birth 

Might vary this dull refrain 
Of the rain, the desolate rain: 

For the heart of heaven seems 
breaking 
In tears o'er the fallen earth, 

And again, again, again. 

We list to the sombre strain. 
The faint, cold, monotone — 
Whose soul is a mystic moan — 
Of the rain, the mournful rain. 
The soft, despairing rain ! 

The rain, the murmurous rain ! 

Weary, passionless, slow, 
'T is the rhythm of settled sorroM'. 

'T is the sobbing of cureless woe! 
And all the tragic life. 

The pathos of Long-Ago, 
Comes back on the sad refrain 
Of the rain, the dreary rain. 
Till the graves in my heart unclose 

And the dead who are bm'ied there 
From a solemn and weird repose 

Awake, — but with eyeballs drear, 
And voices that melt in pain 
On the tide of the plaintive rain. 
The yearning, hopeless rain. 
The long, low, whispering rain ? 



THE STING OF DEATH. 

I FEAR thee not, O Death! nay, oft 

I pine 
To clasp thy passionless bosom to 

mine own, — 
And on thy heart sob out my latest 

moan. 
Ere lapped and lost in thy strange 

sleep divine; 
But much I fear lest that chill breath 

of thine 
Should freeze all tender memories 

into stone, — 
Lest ruthless and malign Oblivion 
Quench the last spark that lingers on 

love's shrine: — 
O God! to moidder through dark, 

dateless years, — 
The while all loving ministries shall 

cease, 
And Time assuage the fondest mourn- 
er's tears! — 
Here lies the sting! — this, <A/.s it is 

to die! — 
And yet great Nature rounds all strife 

Avith peace. 
And life or death, — each rests in 

mystery ! 



JASMINE. 

Of all the woodland flowers of earlier 
spring, 

These golden jasmines, each an air- 
hung bower. 

Meet for the Queen of Fairies' tiring 
hour, 

.Seem loveliest and most fair in blos- 
soming; — 

How yonder mock-bird thrills his 
fervid wing 

And long, lithe throat, where twink- 
ling flower on flower 

Rains the globed dewdrops down, a 
diamond shower. 

O'er his brown head, poised as in act 
to sing: — 

Lo! the swift sunshine floods the 
flowery urns. 

Girding their delicate gold with 
matchless light. 



258 



HEBER — HEDDER WICK. 



Till the blent life of bough, leaf, 

blossom, burns; 
Then, then outbursts the mock-bird 

clear and loud, 



Half-drunk with perfume, veiled by 

radiance bright, — 
A star of music in a fiery 

cloud ! 



Reginald Heber. 



IF THOU iysriT BY MY SIDE. 

If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gaily would oiu- pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
When on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay. 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss tliee when by Gimga's stream 
My twilight steps I guide. 

But most beneatli the lamp's pale 
beam 
I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try. 
The lingering noon to cheer. 



But miss thy kind approving eye, 
Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when of morn or eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far. 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 
My course be onward still; 

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, 
they say. 

Across the dark-blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee! 



James Hedderwick. 



MIDDLE LIFE. 

Fair time of calm resolve — of sober 
thought! 

Quiet half-way hostelry on life's long 
road. 

In which to rest and readjust our 
load ! 

High table-land, to which we have 
been brouglit 

V-j stumbling steY)s of ill-directed toil ! 

Season when not to achieve is to de- 
spair ! 



Last field for us of a full fruitful soil! 
Only spring-tide our freighted aims 

to bear 
Onward to all our yearning dreams 

have sought ! . 



How art thou changed! Once to our 

youthful eyes 
Tliin silvering locks and thought's 

imprinted lines 
Of sloping age gave weird and 

wintiy signs: 



HEDGE. 



259 



But now these trophies ours, we re- 
cognize 

Only a voice faint-rippling to its 
shore, 

And a weak tottering step as marks 
of old. 

None are so far but some are on be- 
fore; 

Thus still at distance is the goal be- 
held. 

And to improve the way is truly wise. 

Farewell, ye blossomed hedges! and 
the deep 



Thick green of summer on the mat- 
ted bough ! 

The languid autumn mellows round 
us now : 

Yet fancy may its vernal beauties 
keep, 

Like holly leaves for a December 
wreath. 

To take this gift of life with trusting 
hands, 

And star with heavenly hopes the 
night of death, 

Is all that poor humanity demands 

To lull its meaner fears to easy sleep. 



Frederic Henry Hedge. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

Hatii this world without me wrought 
Other substance than my thought ? 
Lives it by my sense alone. 
Or by essence of its own ? 
Will its life, with mine begun, 
Cease to be when that is done ? 
Or another consciousness 
With the self-same forms impress ? 

Doth yon fire-ball, poised in air. 
Hang by my permission there ? 
Are the clouds that wander by 
But the offspring of mine eye, 
Born with every glance I cast, 
Perishing when tliat is past ? 
And those thousand, thousand eyes. 
Scattered through the twinkling skies, 
Do they draw their life from mine. 
Or of their own beauty shine ? 

Now I close my eyes, my ears, 

And creation clisappears ; 

Yet if I but speak the word. 

All creation^^is restored. 

Or — more wonderful — within, 

New creations do begin ; 

Hues more bright and forms more 

rare 
Than reality doth wear, 



Flash across my inward sense 
Born of the mind's omnipotence. 

Soul! that all informest, say! 
Shall these glories pass away ? 
Will those planets cease to blaze 
When these eyes no longer gaze ? 
And the life of things be o'er 
When these pulses beat no more ? 

Thought ! that in me works and 

lives, — 
Life to all things living gives, — 
Art thou not thyself, perchance. 
But the universe in trance ? 
A reflection inly flung 
By that world thou fanciedst sprung 
From thyself. — thyself a dream, — 
Of the world's thinking, thou the 

theme ? 

Be it thus, or be thy birtli 

From a soui-ce above the earth, — 

Be thou matter, be thou mind, 

In thee alone myself I find. 

And through thee, alone, for me, 

Hath this world reality. 

Therefore, in thee will I live, 

To thee all myself will give, 

Losing still that 1 may find 

This bomided self in boundless mind. 



y 



260 



HEMANS. 



Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 

What wak'st thou, Spring? Sweet 
voices in the woods, 
And reed-like eclioes, that have 
long been mute ; 
Thou briugest back, to fill the soli- 
tudes. 
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's 
viewless flute, 
Whose tone seems breathing mourn- 
fulness or glee. 
Even as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee, Spring! — 
the joyous leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a 
copse and glade, 
W^here each young spray a rosy flush 
receives. 
When thy south wind hath pierced 
the whispery shade. 
And happy murmurs, rimning 
through the grass. 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters, — they, too, 
hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakener! thou hast 
burst their sleep! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their 
fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests 
deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue 
gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers, — the fairy-peopled 
world of flowers! 
Thou from the dust hast set that 
glory free. 
Coloring the cowslip witli the sunny 
hours. 
And pencilling the wood-anemone : 
Silent they seem ; yet each to thought- 
ful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 



But what awak'st thou in the heart, 
O Spring! — 
The human heart, with all its 
dreams and sighs ? 
Thou that givest back so many a 
buried tiling. 
Restorer of forgotten liarmonies ! 
Fresli songs and scents break fortli 
where'er thou art: 
What wak'st thou in the heart ? 

Too much, oh, there, too much! — 
we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus; yet, 
roused by thee. 
What fond, strange yearnings, from 
the soul's deep cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may 
see! 
How are we liaunted, in thy wind's 
low tone. 
By voices that are gone! 

I>ooks of familiar love, that never 
more, 
Xever on earth, our acliing eyes 
shall meet. 
Past words of welcome to our house- 
hold door. 
And vanished smiles, and sounds 
of parted feet, — 
Spring, midst the murmurs of thy 
flowering trees, 
Wliy, why rev i vest tliou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead! — why 
come they back 
With tliy young birds, and leaves, 
and living blooms ? 
Oh, is it not that from thine earthly 
track 
Hope to thy world may look be- 
yond the tombs '? 
Yes, gentle Spring; no sorrow dims 
thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones 
there. 



HEMANS. 



2t>l 



THE INVOCATION. 

Answer me, burning stars of night I 

Wliere is the spirit gone, 
Tliat past tlie reacli of liuman sight, 

Even as a breeze, hath flown ? 
And tlie stars answered me, —"We 
roll 

In light and power on high, 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask things that cannot die!" 

Oh ! many-toned and chaiuless Avind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea ? 
And the Mind murnuu'ed in reply, 

" The blue deep 1 have crossed, 
And met its barks and billows high. 

But not what thou hast lost!" 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer! have ye a liome for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? 
The bright clouds answered, — *'We 
depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart 

For that which cannot die! " 

Speak, then, thou voice of (iod 
within ! 
Thou of the deep low tone! 
Answer me through life's restless din, 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered, "Be thou 
still ! 
Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds, and stars their task 
fulfil; 
Thine is to trust in Heaven! " 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Lkaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north- 
wind's breath, 
And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
oh! Death. 



Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the joy- 
ous hearth. 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the 
voice of prayer, — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of 
the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hoin- of mirth, and song, 
and wine ; 
There comes a day for grief's o'er- 
whelming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are 
thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for 
decay. 
And smiie at thee, — but thou art 
not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize 
their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north- 
wind's breath. 
And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
oh! Death. 

We know when moons shall Avane. 
When summer-birds from far shall 
cross the sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the 
golden grain, — 
But who shall teach us when to look 
for thee ? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the 
violets lie ? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow 
pale y 
They have one season, — all are ours 
to die! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the 
air; 
Thou art around us in ourj^eaceful 
home. 
And the world calls us forth, — and 
thou art thei'e. 



262 



HEMANS. 



Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the ehn to 
rest, — 
Tliou art where foe meets foe, and 
trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the 
princely crest. 

Leaves have tlieir time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north- 
wind's breath. 
And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
oh! Death. 



EVENING PliAYER AT A GIRLS' 
SCHOOL. 

Hush! 'tis a holy hour, — the quiet 
room 
Seems like a temple, while yon 
soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through 
the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on 
bright young heads. 

With all their clustering locks, un- 
touched by care. 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed 
with night, — in prayer. 

Gaze on, — 'tis lovely! — childhood's 
lip and cheek. 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow 
of thought. 

Gaze, — yet what seest thou in those 
fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sun- 
shine wrought ? 

Thou seest what grief must nurtm-e 
for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink 
to rest. 
Lightly, when those pure orisons 
are done. 
As birds with slumber's honey-dew 
oppressed, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set 
of sun, — 



Lift up your hearts! — though yet no 

sorrow lies 
Dark in the summer-heaven of those 

clear eyes ; 

Though fresh within your breasts the 
untroubled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye 
tread ; 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, 
from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be 
spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, ming- 
ling low, 

Is woman's tenderness, — how soon 
her woe. 

Iler lot is on you, — silent tears to 
weep. 
And patient smiles to wear through 
suffering's hour, 

And sumless riches, from affection's 
deep, 
To pour on broken I'eeds, — a wasted 
shower! [clay. 

And to make idols, and to find them 

And to bewail that worship, — there- 
fore pray! 

Her lot is on you, — to be found un- 

tired. 
Watching the stars out by the bed 

of pain, 
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow 

inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though 

hope be vain. [decay. 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer 
And oh ! to love through all things, — 

therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm 

vesper time, 
With its low miu'muring sounds 

and silvery light. 
On through the dark days fading from 

their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls 

from bliglit. 
Earth will forsake,— oh! happy to 

have given 
The unbroken heart's first fragrance 

unto Heaven! 



HERBERT. 



263 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

The breaking waves dashed high. 

On a stern and rocic-bound coast, 
And tlie woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant brandies tossed ; 

And the lieavy niglit hung dark 

The liills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their 
bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came; 
Not with the roll of the stirring 
drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of 
fame; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear; — 
They shook the depths of the desert 
gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 
And the stars heard, and the sea; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim 
woods rang 
To the anthem of the free! 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's 
foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest 
roared — 
This was their welcome home ! 



There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band: 

Why had they come to wither there. 
Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 
Lit by her deep love's truth; 

There was manhood's brow serenely 
high. 
And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of 
war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 
The soil where first they trod. 

They liave left unstained what there 
they found — 
Freedom to worship God. 



CALM ON THE liOSOM OF OUR 
GOD. 

Calm on the bosom of our God, 
Fair spirit! rest thee now! 

E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul to its place on high! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 



George Herbert. 



THE PULLEY. 



When God at first made man, 
Having a glass of blessing standing 

by: 
Let us (said he) pour on him all we 

can : 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed 
lie. 
Contract into a span. 



So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty fiow'd, then wisdom, 

honor, pleasure: 
When almost all was out, God made 

a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his 
treasure. 
Rest in the bottom lay. 



•264 



HERBERT. 



For If I should (said he) 
Bestow this jewel also on my crea- 
ture, 
He would adore my gifts instead of 

me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of 
Nature : 
So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with rcpinuig restless- 
ness : 
Let him be rich and weary, that at 

least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weari- 
ness 
May toss him to my breast. 



[From the Cliurch Porch ] 
ADVICE ON CHURCH BEHAVIOR. 

When once thy foot enters the 
church, be bare. 

God is more tliere than thou : for thou 
art there 

Only by his permission. Then be- 
ware. 

And make thyself all reverence and 
fear. 

Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stock- 
ings : quit thy state. 

All equal are within the church's 
gate. 

Resort to sermons, but to prayers 

most: 
Praying's the end of preaching. O 

be drest; 
Stay not for the other pin: why thou 

hast lost 
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell 

doth jest 
Away thy blessings, and extremely 

flout thee. 
Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul 

loose about tliee. 

In time of service seal up both thine 

eyes. 
And send them to thine heart; that 

spying sin, 



They may weep out the stains by 

them did rise: 
Those doors being shut, all by the 
ear comes in. 
Who marks in church-time other 

symmetry. 
Makes all their beauty his de- 
formity. 

Let vain or busy thoughts have there 
no part : 

Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy 
pleasure thither 

Christ purged the temple; so must 
thou thy heart. 

All Worldly thoughts are but these 
met together 
To cozen thee. Look to thy ac- 
tions well : 
For churches either are our heaven 
or hell. 

Judge not the preacher ; for he is thy 
judge: 

If thou mislike him, thou conceivest 
him not. 

God calleth preaching folly. Do not 
grudge 

To pick out treasures from an earthen 
pot. 
The worst speak something good : 

if all want sense, 
God takes a text and preaches pa- 
tience. 



[From the Church Pot-ch.] 
SUM UP AT NIGHT. 

StJM up at night, what thou hast 
done by day ; 

And in the morning, what thou hast 
to do. 

Dress and undress thy soul: mark 
the decay 

And growth of it: if with thy watch 
that too 
Be down, then wind up both, since 

we sliall be 
Most surely judged, make thy ac- 
counts agree. 



HEBRICK. 



265 



In brief, acquit thee bravely ; play the 

man, 
Look not on pleasures as they come, 

but go. 
Defer not the least virtue; life's poor 

span 
Make not an ell, by triflinii' in thy wo. 
If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the 

pains : 
If well ; the pain doth fade, the joy 

remains. 



BOSOM SIN. 

Lord, with what care hast thou be- 
girt us round ! 
Parents first season us : then school- 
masters 
Deliver us to laws: they send us 
bound 
To rules of reason, holy messengers. 

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging 
sin, 
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all 

sizes. 
Fine nets and stratagems to catch 
us in. 
Bibles laid open, millions of sur- 
prises, 

Blessings beforehand, ties of grate- 
fulness. 
The sound of glory ringing in our 
ears ; 



Without, our shame; within, our 
consciences; 
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and 
fears. 

Yet all these fences and their whole 

array 
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite 

away. 



VIRTUE. 

Sw^EET day, so cool, so calm, so 

bright. 
The bridal of the earth and sky; 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and 

brave 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and 

roses. 
A box where sweets compacted lie. 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to 
coal, 

Then chiefly lives. 



Robert Herrick. 



TO PERILLA. 

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to 

see 
Me, day by day, to steal away from 

thee ? 
Age calls me hence, and my gray 

hairs bid come. 
And haste away to mine eternal 

home; 



'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this 
That I must give thee the supremest 

kiss. 
Dead when I am, first cast in salt, 

and bring [spring. 

Part of the cream from that religious 
With which, Perilla, wash my hands 

and feet ; 
That done, then wind me in that 

very sheet 



266 



HERRICK. 



Which wrapt, thy smooth Hmbs when 

thou didst implore 
The gods' protection, but the niglit 

before ; 
Follow me weeping to my turf, and 

there 
Let fall a primrose, and with it a 

tear. 
Then lastly, let some weekly strew- 

ings be 
Devoted to the memory of me ; 
Then shall my ghost not walk about, 

but keep 
Still in the cool and silent shades of 

sleep. 



THE PRIMROSE. 

Ask me why I send you here 
This sweet infanta of the year '? 
Ask me why I send to you 
This primrose, thus bepearled with 

dew? 
1 will whisper to your ears. 
The sweets of love are mixed with 

tears. 
Ask me why this flower does show 
So yellow green and sickly too ? 
Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break ? 
I will answer, these discover 
What fainting hopes are in a lover. 



THREE EPITAPHS. 
UPON A CHILI) 

Here she lies, a pretty bud, 
Lately made of flesh and blood; 
Who so soon fell fast asleep 
As her little eyes did peep. 
Give her strewings, but not stir. 
The earth that lightly covers her ! 

L7PON A CHILD. 

Virgins promised when I died. 
That they would, each primrose-tide, 
Duly morn and evening come. 
And with flowers dress my tomb : 
Having promised, pay your debts, 
Maids, and here strew violets. 



UPON A MAID. 

Here she lies, in beds of spice. 
Fair as Eve in paradise; 
For her beauty it was such. 
Poets could not praise too much. 
Virgins," come, and in a ring 
Her supremest requiem sing; , 
Then depart, but see ye tread 
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead. 



HOW THE HEART- S EASE FIRST 
CAME. 

Frolic virgins once these were, 
Over-loving, living here; 
Being here their ends denied, 
Kan for sweethearts mad and died. 
Love, in pity of their tears. 
And their loss of blooming years. 
For their restless here-spent hours, 
Gave them heart' s-ease turned to 
flowers. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

In the hour of my distress 
When temptations me oppress. 
And when I my sins confess. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When I lie within my bed. 
Sick at heart, and sick in head, 
And with doubts discomforted, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep. 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hope, but of his fees, 
And his skill runs on the lees, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When his potion and his pill, 
His or none or little skill, 
Meet for nothing, but to kill — 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 



HERVEY. 



267 



\A'lien the passing bell doth toll, 
And the Furies, in a shoal, 
Come to fright a parting soul, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers now burn blue. 
And the comforters are few. 
And that number more than true, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the priest his last hath prayed. 
And I nod to what he said 
Because my speech is now decayed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When, God knows, I'm tost about 
Either with despair or doubt. 
Yet before the glass be out, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien the Tempter me pursu'th. 
With the sins of all my youth. 
And half damns me with untruth 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright mine ears, and fright mine 

eyes, 
And all terrors me surprise. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 

When the judgment is revealed. 
And that opened which was sealed — 
When to Thee I have appealed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 



TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 

Is this a fast — to keep 
The larder lean. 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, vet still 
To m 
The platter high with fish ? 

Is it to fast an hour — 
Or ragged go — 
Or show 
A downcast look, and sour ? 

No! 'tis a fast to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat, 
And meat. 
Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife. 
From old debate, 
And hate — 
To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent; 
To starve thy sin, 
Not bin — 
And that's to keep thy Lent. 



Thomas Kibble Hervey. 



CLEOPATRA EMBARKING ON THE 
CYDNUS. I 

Fi.uTES in the sunny air! 
And harps in the porphyry 
halls! I 

And a low, deep hum like a people's I 
prayer. 
With its heart-breathed swells and 
falls! 
And an echo like the desert's call, 

Flung back to the shouting shores! 
And the river's ripple heard through 
all. 
As it plays with the silver oars! — 



The sky is a gleam of gold, 
And the amber breezes float 

Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but 
never told. 
Around the dancing boat! 

She has stepped on the burning sand ; 
And the thousand tongues are 
mute, 
And the Syrian strikes with a trem- 
bling hand 
The strings of his gilded lute! 
And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud 
and high 
Beneath his white syraar, 



268 



HEYWOOD. 



And the Libyan kneels, as he meets 
her eye, 
Like tlie flasli of an eastern star! 
Tlie gales may not be heard, 

Yet the silken streamers quiver. 
And the vessel shoots, like a bright- 
plumed bird. 
Away down the golden river ! 



Away by the lofty mount. 

And away by the lonely shore. 
And away by the gushing of many a 
fount. 

Where fountains gush no more! — 
Oh, for some warning vision there, 

Some voice that should have spoken 
Of climes to be laid waste and bare 

And glad youjig spirits broken! 
Of waters dried away. 

And hope and beauty blasted ! 
That scenes so fair and hearts so gay 

Should be so early wasted ! 



EPITAPH. 

Farewei.i. ! since nevermore for thee 
The sun comes up our earthly skies. 

Less bright henceforth shall sun- 
shine be [eyes. 
To some fond hearts and saddened 

There are who, for thy last long sleep. 

Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore. 
Must weep because thou canst not 

weep, 
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 

Sad thrift of love! — the loving breast, 
Whereon thine aching head was 
thrown. 

Gave up the weary head, to rest. 
But kept the aching for its own. 

Till pain shall find the same low bed 
That pillows now thy painless head. 
And following darkly through the 
night, I light. 

Love reach thee by the founts of 



Thomas Heywood. 



GOOD-MOPiROW. 



Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow ; 

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, 
aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow, 

Wings from the wind to please her 
mind, 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 

Bird, prune thy wing,nighlingale,sing, 

To give my love good-morrow. 



Wake from thy nest, robin red- 
breast. 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every 
bush. 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow; 
You pretty elves, among yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 




HIGGINSON. — niLLARD. 



269 



Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 



DECORATION. 

" Manihus date lUiaplenis." 

'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I 

stand, 
Bearing lilies in my hand. 
Comrades ! in what soldier-grave 
Sleeps the bravest of the brave ? 
Is it he who sank to rest 
With his colors round his breast ? 
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, 
Garlands veil it ; ask not mine. 
One lone grave, yon trees beneath. 
Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; 
Yet no heart more high and warm 
Ever dared the battle-storm. 

Never gleamed a prouder eye 
In the front of victory : 



Never foot had firmer tread 
On the field where hope lay dead, 
Than are hid within this tomb. 
Where the untended grasses bloom; 
And no stone, with feigned distress. 
Mocks the sacred loneliness. 

Youth and beauty, dauntless will. 
Dreams that life could ne'er fulfil, 
Here lie buried — here in peace 
Wrongs and woes have found re- 
lease. 

Turning from my comrades' eyes. 
Kneeling where a woman lies. 
I strew lilies on the grave 
Of the bravest of the brave. 




George Stillman Hillard. 



LAKE GEORGE. 

How oft in visions of the night. 
How oft in noonday dreaming. 
I've seen, fair lake, thy forest wave, — 
Have seen thy waters gleaming; 
Have heard the blowing of the winds 
That sweep along thy highlands. 
And the light laughter of the waves 
That dance around thine islands. 

It was a landscape of the mind, 

With forms and hues ideal. 

But still those hues and forms ap- 
peared 

More lovely than aught real. 

I feared to see the breathing scene, 

And brooded o'er the vision. 

Lest the hard touch of truth should 
mar 

A picture so Elysian. 

But now I break the cold distrust 
Whose spells so long had bound me ; 
The shadows of the night are past,— 
The morning shines around me. 



And in the sober light of day, 
I see. with eyes enchanted, 
The glorious vision that so long 
My day and night dreams haunted. 

I see the green, translucent wave, 
The purest of earth's fountains: 
I see the many-winding shore, — 
The double range of mountains: 
One, neighbor to the flying clouils, 
And crowned with leaf and blossom, 
And one, more lovely, borne within 
The lake's unruttied bosom. 

O timid heart! with thy glad throbs 
Some self-reproach is blended. 
At the long years that died before 
The sight of scene so splendid. 
The mind has pictures of its own, 
Fair trees and waters flowing — 
But not a magic whole like this. 
So living, breathing, glowing; 

Strength imaged in the wooded hills, 
A grand, primeval nature. 



270 



HOFFMAN. 



Anil beauty mirrored in the lake, 

A gentler, softer feature ; 

A perfect union, — wliere no want 

Upon the soul is pressing; 

Like manly power and female grace 

Made one by bridal blessing. 

Nor is the stately scene without 
Its sweet, secluded treasiu-es. 
Where hearts that shun the crowd 

may find 
Their own exclusive pleasures ; 
Deep chasms of shade for pensive 

thought, 
The hours to wear away in ; 
And vaulted aisles, of whispering pine. 
For lovers' feet to stray in ; 

Clear streams that from the uplands 

run, 
A course of sunless shadow ; 
Isles all imfurrowed by the i^lough. 
And strips of fertile meadow ; 
And rounded coves of silver sand, 
Where moonlight plays and glances, — 
A sheltered hall for elfin horns, 
A floor for elfin dances. 

No tame monotony is here, 
But beauty ever changing ; 



With clouds, and shadows of the 

clouds. 
And mists the hillsides ranging. 
Where morning's gold, and noon's 

hot sim, 
Their changing glories render; 
Pour round the shores a varying 

light. 
Now glowing and now tender. 

But purer than the shifting gleams 

By liberal sunshine given, 

Is the deep spirit of that hour, — 

An efHuence breathed from heaven; 

When the unclouded, yellow moon 

Hangs o'er the eastern ridges. 

And the long shaft of trembling 

gold. 
The trembling crystal bridges. 

Farewell, sweet lake! brief were the 

hours 
Along thy banks for straying; 
But not farewell what memory 

takes, — 
An image undecaying. 
I hold secure beyond all change 
One lovely recollection, 
To cheer the hours of lonely toil. 
And chase away dejection. 



Charles Fenno Hoffman. 



MONTE RE Y. 

We were not many, — we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have been with vis at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it 
hailed 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them 
wailed 
Their dying shouts at Monterey. 



And on, still on our cohunn kept, 
Through walls of fianie, its wither- 
ing way; 
Where fell the dead, the living 

stept, 
Still charging on the guns which 
swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast. 
When, striking whei'e he strongest 

lay, 

We swooped his flanking batteries 
past, 



HOGG — HOLLAND. 



271 



And, braving full their murderous 
blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Mon- 
terey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange boughs above their 
grave 



Keep green the memorj' of the bravt; 
Who fouglit and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many, — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that 

day: 

But who of us has not confessed 

He'd rather share their warrior rest 

Than not have been at Monterey ? 



James Hogg. 



THE SKYLARK. 



Bird of the wilderness 
Blithesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland 
and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay and loud. 
Far in the downy cloud, 

Love gives itenergy,love gave it birth, 
Where, on thy dewy wing, 
Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on 
earth. 



O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green, 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the 
day. 
Over the cloudlet dim. 
Over the rainbow's rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! 
Then, when the gloaming comes. 
Low in the lieather blooms. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of 
love be ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with tlioe I 



JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



[From Bitter-Sweef.] 

A SONG OF DOUBT. 

The day is quenched, and the sun is 
fled; 
God has forgotten the world ! 
The moon is gone, and the stars are 
dead ; 
God has forgotten the world ! 

Evil has won In the horrid feud 
Of ages with The Throne ; 

Evil stands on the neck of Good, 
And rules the world alone. 



There is no good ; there is no God ; 

And Faith is a heartless cheat 
Who bares the backfor the Devil's rod. 

And scatters thorns for the feet. 

What are prayers in the lips of death. 

Filling and chilling with hail ? 
What are prayers but wasted breatli 

Beaten back by the gale '? 

[fled; 
The day is quenched, and the sun is 

God iias forgotten the world ! 
The moon is gone, and the stars are 
dead; 

God has forgotten the world ! 




272 



HOLLAND. 



[From Bitter- Sweet.] 
A SONG OF FAFFH. 

Day will return with a freslier boon; 

God will reiueniber the world ! 
Night will come with a newer moon ; 

God will remember the world ! 

Evil is only the slave of Good; 

Sorrow the servant of Joy ; 
And the soul is mad that refuses food 

Of the meanest in God's employ. 

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, 
And love is lit by the breath of 
sighs ; 
The deepest griefs and the wildest 
fears 
Have holiest ministries. 

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping 
storm ; 
Safely the flower sleeps under the 
snow ; 
And the farmer's hearth is never 
warm 
Till the cold wind starts to blow. 

Day will return with a fresher boon; 

(iod will remember the world ! 
Night will come with a newer moon; 

God will remember the world ! 



[From Bitter-Stveet.] 

WHAT IS THE LITTLE OXE 
THINKING ABOUT? 

What is the little one thinking 

about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt. 
Unwritten history ! 
Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and 

drinks, 
And chuckles and crows, and nods 

and winks. 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx! 

Waqied by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by 

fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years; 



And he'll never know 
Where the summers go; — 
He need not laugh, for he'll (in 1 it so! 



Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

I>y which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great un- 
known. 
Blind, and wailing, and all alone. 

Into the light of day "? — 
Out from the shore of the unknown 

sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unknown sea that reels and 

rolls. 
Specked with the barks of little 

souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the 

other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebb- 
ing tide ! 
What does he think of his mother's 
eyes ? 
What does he think of his moth- 
er's hair? 
What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through 

the air? 
What does he think of his moth- 
er's breast, — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, — 
Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when lier quick 

embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink 

and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell. 
Though she mui-mur the words 
Of all the birds, — 
Words she has learned to murmur 
well ? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse. 
Over his brow, and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips; 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 
See! He is hushed in sweet re- 
pose! 



\_From Bitter-iiireef.] 

STRENGTH THROUGH RESISTED 
TEMPTATION. 

God loves not sin, nor I; but in the 

throng 
Of evils that assail us, there are none 
That yield their strength to Virtue's 

struggling arm 
With sucli munificent reward of 

power 
As great temptations. We may win 

by toil 
Endurance ; saintly fortitude by pain ; 
By sickness, patience ; faith and trust 

by fear; 
But the great stimulus that spurs to 

life, 
And crowds to generous development 
Each chastened power and iiassion of 

the soul, 
Is the temptation of the soul to sin, 
Kesisted, and reconquered, evermore. 



[From Bitter-Sweet.] 
THE PRESS OF SORROW. 

Heauts, like apples, are hard and 

sour. 
Till crushed by Pain's resistless 

power ; 
And yield their juices rich and bland 
To none but .Sorrow's heavy hand. 
The purest streams of human love 

Flow naturally never. 
But gush by pressure from above. 

With God's hand on the lever. 
The first are turbidest and meanest ; 
The last are sweetest and serenest. 



[From Bitter-Sweet.] 
LIFE FROM DEATH. 

Life evermore is fed by death, 

In earth and sea and sky ; 
And, that a rose may breathe its 
breath. 

Something must die. 



Earth is a sepulchre of flowers, 

AVhose vitalizing mould 
Through boundless transmutation 
towers. 

In green and gold. 

The oak-tree, struggling with the 
blast. 
Devours its father-tree. 
And sheds its leaves and drops its 
mast, 

That more may be. 

The falcon preys upon the finch, 

The finch upon the fly, 
And nought will loose the hunger- 
pinch 

But death's wild cry. 

The milk-haired heifer's life must 
pass 
That it may fill your own. 
As passed the sweet life of the 
grass 

She fed upon. 

The power enslaved by yonder cask 

Shall many burdens bear; 
Shall nerve the toiler at his task. 
The soul at prayer. 

From lowly woe springs lordly joy; 

From humbler good diviner; 
The greater life must aye destroy 
And drink the minor. 

From hand to hand life's cup is 
passed 
Up Being's piled gradation, 
Till men to angels yield at last 
The rich collation. 



[From liitter-Siceef.] 
WORTH AND COST. 

Thus is it over all the earth ! 

That which we call the fairest. 
And i^rize for its siu'passing worth. 
Is always rarest. 



Iron is heaped in mountain piles. 

And gluts the laggard forges: 
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles 
And lonely gorges. 

The snowy marble flecks the land 

With heaped and rounded ledges, 
But diamonds hide within the sand 
Their starry edges. 

The finny armies clog the twine 

That sweeps the lazy river. 
But pearls come singly from the brine, 
With the pale diver. 

God gives no value unto men 

Unmatched by meed of labor; 
And Cost, of Worth, has ever been 
The closest neighbor. 

Wide is the gate and broad the way 

That opens to perdition. 
And countless multitudes are they 
AVho seek admission. 

But strait the gate, the path unkind. 

That leads to life immortal. 
And few the careful feet that find, 
The hidden portal. 

All common good has common price ; 

Exceeding good, exceeding; 
Christ bought the keys of Paradise 
By cruel bleeding ; 

And every soul that wins a place 

Upon its hills of pleasure, 
Must give its all, and beg for grace 
To fill the measure. 



[From Bitter-Sweet.] 
CUADLE SOJSFG. 

Hither, Sleep ! a mother wants thee ! 

Come with velvet arms! 
Fold the baby that she grants thee 

To thy own soft charms ! 

Bear him into Dreamland lightly! 

Give liim sight of flowers ! 
Do not bring him back till brightly 

Break the morning hours ! 



Close his eyes with gentle fingers ! 

Cross his hands of snow ! 
Tell the angels wliere he lingers 

They must whisper low ! 

1 will guard thy si)oll unbroken 

If thou hear my call ; 
Come, then. Sleep! I wait the token 

Of thy downy thrall. 

Now I see his sweet lips moving; 

He is in thy keep; 
Other milk the babe is proving 

At the breast of Sleep ! 



[From Ditter-Siceet.'] 
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING. 

Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of 

innocence! 
Sleep like a bud ; for soon the sun of 

life 
With ardors quick and passionate 

shall rise. 
And with hot kisses, part the fra- 
grant lips — 
The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! 
What feverish winds shall tease and 

toss thee, then ! 
Wliat pride and pain, ambition and 

despair. 
Desire, satiety, and all that fill 
With misery, life's fretful enterprise, 
Shall wrench and blanch thee, till 

thou fall at last, 
Joy after joy down-fluttering to the 

earth. 
To be apportioned to the elements ! 
I marvel, baby, whether it were ill 
That he who planted thee should 

pluck thee now. 
And save thee from the blight that 

comes on all. 
I marvel whether it would not be well 
That the frail bud should burst in 

Paradise, 
On the full throbbing of an angel's 

heart ! 



THE TYPE OF STRUGGLING 
HUMANITY. 

IjAocoox! thou great embodiment 
Of human life and human history ! 
Thou record of the past, thou proph- 
ecy 
Of the sad future, thou majestic voice, 
PeaUng along tlie ages from old time I 
Thou wail of agonized humanity ! 
There lives no thought in marble like 

to thee ! 
Thou hast no kindred in the Vatican, 
But standest separate among the 

dreams 
Of old mythologies — alone — alone ! 
The beautiful Apollo at thy side 
Is but a marble dream, and dreams 

are all 
The gods and goddesses and fauns 

and fates 
That populate these wondrous halls ; 

but thou, 
Standing among them, liftest up thy- 
self 
In majesty of meaning, till they sink 
Far from the sight, no more signifi- 
cant 
Than the poor toys of children. For 

thou art 
A voice from out the world's experi- 
ence, 
Speaking of all the generations past 
To all the generations yet to come 
Of the long struggle, the sublime de- 
spair. 
The wild and weaiy agony of man ! 



ON THE RIGHI. 

On the Righi Kulm we stood, 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
While tiie morning's crimson flood 

Streamed along the eastern sky. 
Reddened every mountain-peak 

Into rose from twilight dun ; 



But the blush upon her cheek 
Was not lighted by the sun ! 

On the Righi Kulm we sat. 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
Plucking bluebells for her hat 

From a mound that blossomed 
nigh. 
" We are near to heaven," she sighed, 

While her I'aven lashes fell. 
" Nearer," softly I replied, 

" Than the mountain's height may 
tell." 

Down the Righi' s side we sped. 

Lovely Floribel and I, 
But her morning blush had fled 

And the bluebells all were dry. 
Of the height the dream was born; 

Of the lower air it died ; 
And the passion of the morn 

Flagged and fell at eventide. 

From the breast of blue Lucerne, 

Lovely Floribel and I 
Saw the brand of sunset burn 

On the Righi Kulm, and die. 
And we wondered, gazing thus. 

If our dream would still remain 
On the height, and wait for us 

Till we climb to heaven again ! 



WHAT WILL IT MATTER? 

If life awake and will never cease 
On the future's distant shore. 

And the rose of love and the lily of 
peace 
Shall bloom there forevermore, — 

Let the world go round and round. 
And the sim sink into the sea; 

For whether I'm on or inider the 
ground. 
Oh, what will it matter to me ? 



276 



HOLME — HOLMES. 



Saxe Holme. 



THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL. 

Three, only three, my darling, 

Separate, solemn, slow; 
Not like the swift and joyous ones, 

We used to know 
When we kissed because we loved 
each other 

Simply to taste love's sweet, 
And lavished our kisses as the sum- 
mer 

Lavishes heat ; — 
But as they kiss whose hearts are 
wrung. 

When hope and fear are spent, 
And nothing is left to give except 

A sacrament ! 

First of the three, my darling, 

Is sacred unto pain ; 
We have hurt each other often : 

We shall again, 
When we pine because we miss each 
other. 

And do not miderstand. 
How the written words are so much 
colder 

Than eye and hand. 
I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain 

Which we may give or take ; 



Buried, forgiven, before it comes. 
For our love's sake! 

The second kiss, my darling. 

Is full of joy's sweet thrill; 
We have blessed each other always ; 

We always will. 
We shall reach till we feel each other. 

Past all of time and space ; 
We shall listen till we hear each 
other 

In every place; 
The earth is full of messengers 

Which love sends to and fro ; 
I kiss thee, darling, for all joy 

Which we shall know ! 

The last kiss, oh, my darling, 

My love — I cannot see 
Through my tears, as I remember 

What It may be. 
We may die and never see each other. 

Die with no time to give 
Any sign that our hearts are faithful 

To die, as live. 
Token of what they will not see 

Who see our parting breath, 
This one last kiss, my darling, seals 

The seal of death ! 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We count the broken lyi-es that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers 
slumber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 
The wild-flowers who will stoop to 
number '> 
A few can touch the magic string. 
And noisy fame is proud to win 
them : — 
Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in 
them ! 



Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
Whose song has told their hearts' 
sad story, — 
Weep for the voiceless, who have 
known 
The cross without the crown of 
glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
O'er Sappho's memory-haiuited 
billow. 
But where the glistening night-dews 
weep 
On nameless Sorrow's churchyard 
pillow. 



HOLMES. 



211 



O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading 
tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crush- 
ing presses, — 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 



up- 



DOEOTHY Q. 
A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's mother: her age I 

guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air: 
Smooth, square forehead ^\ith 

rolled hair. 
Lips that lover has never kissed ; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist; 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene. 
Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
Look! there's a rent the light shines 

through. 
Dark with' a century's fringe of 

dust, — 
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! 
Such is the tale the lady old, 
Dorothy's daughter's daughter told. 

Who the painter was none may tell,— 
One whose best was not over well ; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 
Flat as a rose that has long been 

pressed : 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 

Dorothy Q. was a lady l)orn ! 

Ay! since the galloping N'ormans 

came, 
England's annals have known her 

name : 



And still to the three-hilled rebel 

town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
For many a civic wreath they won. 
The youthful sire and the gray-haired 

son. 

O Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or son might 

bring. 
All my tenure of heart and hand, 
All my title to house and land ; 
Mother and sister and child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and 

life! 

^Vliat if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered 

No. 
When forth the tremulous question 

came 
That cost the maiden her Norman 

name. 
And mider the folds that look so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom's 

thrill ? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One tenth another to nine-tenths me? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes: 
Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wa^'e and 

blast, 
And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so long! 
There were tones in the voice that 

whispered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred 

men. 

O lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, — and here we 

are. 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their 

own, — 
A goodly record for time to show 
Of a syllable spoken so long ago : — 
Shall 1 bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
For the tender whisper that bade" me 

live ? 



278 



HOLMES. 



It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's 
blade, 

And freshen the gold of the tarnished 
frame, 

And gild with a rhyme your house- 
hold name: 

So you shall smile on us brave and 
bright 

As first you greeted the morning's 
light, 

And live untroubled by woes and 
fears 

Through a second youth of a hun- 
dred years. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 

Hek hands are cold; her face is 
white ; 
No more her pulses come and go ; 
Her eyes are shut to life and light; — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on 

snow. 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone, 
To plead for tears with alien eyes; 

A slender cross of wood alone 
Shall say, that here a maiden lies. 
In peace beneath the peaceful 
skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 
Shall wheel their circling shadows 
round 
To make the scorching sunlight dim 
That drinks the greenness from the 

ground, 
And drop their dead leaves on her 
mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels 
ran. 
And through their leaves the robins 
call, 
And ripening in the autumn sun. 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them 
all. 



For her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
That trills beneath the April sky, 
Shall greet her with its earliest 
cry. ■ 

^Vhen turning round their dial track, 
Eastward the lengthening shadows 
pass. 
Her little mourners, clad in black, 
The crickets, sliding through the 

grass. 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 

At last the rootlets of the trees 
Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the bviried dust they seize . 
In leaves and blossoms to the skies 
So may the soul that warmed it 
rise! 

If any, born of kindlier blood. 
Should ask, What maiden lies be- 
low ? 
Say only this: A tender bud. 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets 
blo\v. 



NEARING THE SXOW-LIXE. 

Slow toiling upward from the misty 
vale, 
I leave the bright enamelled zones 

beloAv ; 
No more for me their beauteous 
bloom shall glow. 
Their lingering sweetness load the 

morning gale; 
Few are the slender flowerets, scent- 
less, pale. 
That on their ice-clad stems, all 

trembling blow 
Along the margin of unmelting 
snow ; 
Yet with imsaddt ned voice thy verge 
I hail. 



mv's 



m^ 



HOOD. 



279 



White realm of peace above the 
flowering hne, 
Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky 
spires ! 
O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt 
planets shine, 
On thy majestic altars fade the fires 
That tilled the air with smoke of vain 
desires. 
And all the unclouded blue of 
heaven is thine ! 



THE TWO STIiEAMS. 

Behold the rocky wall 
That down its sloping sides 
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending 
as they fall, 
In rushing river-tides ! 

Yon stream, whose sources run 
Turned by a pebble's edge. 
Is Athabasca, rolling towards the sun 
Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed. 
But for the slanting stone. 
To evening's ocean, with the tangled 
braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

So from the heights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender 
rill. 
Each widening torrent bends, — 



From the same cradle's side. 
From the same mother's knee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen 
tide, 
One to the Peaceful Sea ! 



HYMX OF TRUST. 

O Love Divine, that stoopedst to 
share 
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest 
tear. 
On Thee we cast each earth-born care, 
We smile at pain while Thou art 
near ! 

Though long the weary way we tread, 

And sorrow crown each lingering 

year, 

No path we shun, no darkness dread, 

Our hearts still whispering, Thou 

art near! 

When drooping pleasure turns to 
grief, 
And trembling faith is changed to 
fear. 
The murmuring wind, the quivering 
leaf. 
Shall softly tell us. Thou art near ! 

On Thee we fling our^iurdening woe, 
O Love Divine, forever dear. 

Content to suffer while we know. 
Living and dying. Thou art near ! 



Thomas Hood. 



MELA^CHOL Y. 

[From the Ode thereon.] 

Lo! here the best, the worst, the 

world 
Doth now remember or forget 
Are in one common ruin hurled ; 
And love and hate are calmly met — 
The loveliest eyes that ever shone. 
The fairest hands, and locks of jet. 



Is 't not enough to vex our souls 

And fill our eyes, that we liave set 

Our love upon a rose's leaf. 

Our hearts upon a violet ? 

Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; 

And, sometimes, at their swift decay 

Beforehand we must fret. 

The roses bud and bloom again ; 

But love may haunt the grave of love, 

And watch the mould in vain. 



280 



HOOD. 



O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art 

mine. 
And do not take my tears amiss; 
For tears luiist flow to wash away 
A thought that shows so stern as 

this. 
Forgive, if somewhile I forget. 
In woe to come, the present bliss, 
As frighted Proserpine let fall 
Her flowers at the sight of Dis. 
E'en so the dark and bright will 

kiss; 
The sunniest things throw sternest 

shade; 
And there is even a happiness 
Tliat makes the heart afraid! 
Now let us witli a spell invoke 
The full-orbed moon to grieve our 

eyes; 
Not bright, not bright — but with a 

eloud 
Lapped all about her, let her rise 
All pale and dim, as if from rest. 
The ghost of the late buried sun 
Had crept into tlie skies. 
The moon! she is the source of 

sighs. 
The very face to make us sad, 
If but to think in other times 
The same calm, quiet look she had, 
As if the world held nothing liase, 
Or vile and mean, or herce and 

bad — 
The same faij light that shone in 

streams. 
The fairy lamp that charmed the 

lad; 
For so it is, with spent delights 
She taunts men's brains, and makes 

them mad. 

All things are touched with melan- 
choly, 
Born of the secret soul's mistrust 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weighed down with vile, degraded 

dust. 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of disgust — 
Like the sweet blossoms of the 

May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
Oh, give her then her tribute just, 



Her sighs and tears, and musings 

holy! 
There is no music in the life 
That sounds with idiot laughter 

solely; 
There "s not a string attimed to mirth, 
But has its chord in melancholy. 



rO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS 
MOTHER. 

Love thy mother, little one ! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 

Gaze upon her living eyes. 
And mirror back her lov(> for thee, — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet tliem when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes I 

Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told. 
Hereafter thoti mayest press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine old are cold, 
Press her lips the while they glow! 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
Althotigh it be not silver-gray — 
Too early Death, led on by fare. 
May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh! revere her raven hair! 

Pray for her at eve and morn. 
That Heaven may long the stroke 

defer, — 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I REMEMBEK, I remember 
The house where I was born. 
The little window where the stin 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon; 



HOOD. 



281 



Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away ! 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white. 

The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember. I remember 

Where I was used to swing. 

And thought the air must rush as 

fresii 
To swallows on the wing; 
]My spirit flew in feathers then. 
That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through 
the night 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 
Our fears our hopes belied — 

We thought her dying when she slept. 
And sleeping when she died. 



For when the morn came, dim and 
sad. 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

With fingers weaiy and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 

Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
And still with a voice of dolorous 
pitch 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt! " 

■ ' Woi'k ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof I 
And \\ork — work — work. 

Till the stars shine through the 
roof ! 
It's oh! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to 
save. 

If this is Christian work! 

' ' Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim ! 
Work — work — work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam — 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream I 

•' O men, with sisters dear! 

O men, with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out! 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of Death — 
That phantom of grisly bone ? 

I hardly fear his terrible shape. 
It seems so like ray omu — 



282 



HOOD. 



It seems so like my own 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 
And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

' ' Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of 
straw, 
A crust of bread, and rags. 
That shattered roof, and this naked 
floor; 
A table, a broken chair; 
And a wall so blank my shadow I 
thank 
For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ! 
Work — work — work — 

As prisoners Mork for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band — 
Till the heart is sick and the brain 
benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — Avork 

In the dull December light ! 
And work — work — work. 

When the weather is warm and 
bright ! — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

" O ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

"O! but for one short hour — 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart ; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread! " 



With fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 

Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still, with a voice of dolorous 

pitch — 
AVould that its tone could reach the 
rich ! — 
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

Onk more unfortmiate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate. 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements. 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her moiu'nfully, 
Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny. 
Rash and undutif ul ; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautifid. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers> 
Oozing so clannnily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb — 



dw 



HOOD. 



283 



Her fair auburn tresses — 


Take her up tenderly — 


Whilst wonderment guesses 


Lift her with care ! 


Where was lier home "? 


Fashioned so slenderly — 




Young and so fair ! 


Who was her fatlier ? 




Who was her motlier ? 


Ere her limbs frigidly, 


Had slie a sister ? 


Stiffen too rigidly. 


Had she a brotlier ? 


Decently, kindly. 


Or was tliere a dearer one 


Smooth and compose them; 


8till, and a nearer one 


And her eyes, close them, 


Yet, tlian all other ? 


Staring so blindly ! 


Alas ! for the rarity 


Dreadfully staring 


Of Christian charity 


Through muddy hnpurity, 


Under the sun ! 


As when with the daring 


Oh ! it was pitiful ! 


Last look of despairing 


Near a whole city full, 


Fixed on futurity. 


Home she had none. 






Perishing gloomily, 


Sisterly, brotherly. 


Spurred by contumely, 


Fatherly, motherly 


Cold inhumanity 


Feelings had changed — 


Burning insanity 


Love, by harsh evidence, 


Into her rest ! 


Thrown from its eminence ; 


Cross her hands humbly, 


Even God's providence 


As if praying dumbly, 


Seeming estranged. 


Over her breast ! 


Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

W'ith many a light 

From window and casement, 


Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to'her Saviour! 


From garret to basement, 




She stood with amazement. 
Houseless by night. 








FAREWELL, LIFE.' 


The bleak wind of March 




Made her tremble and shiver: 


Faeewei.l, Life ! my senses swim, 


But not the dark arch, 


And the world is growing dim : 


Or the black flowing river; 


Thronging shadows cloud the light, 


Mad from life's history. 


Like the advent of the niglit — 


Glad to death's mystery. 


Colder, colder, colder stilt, 


Swift to be hurled — 


Upwards steals a vapor chill ; 


Any where, any where 


Strong the earthy odor grows — 


Out of the world ! 


I smell the mould above the rose ! 


In she plunged boldly — 


AVelcome, Life! the spirit strives: 


No matter how coldly 


Strength returns, and hope revives; 


The rough river ran — 


Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 


Over the brink of it ! 


Fly like shadows at the morn — 


Picture it — think of it ! 


O'er the earth there comes a bloom; 


Dissolute man! 


Sunny light for sidlen gloom. 


Lave in it, drink of it, 


Warm perfume for vapor cold — 


Then, if you can ! 


I smell the rose above the mould ! 



284 



HOUGHTON. 



BALLAD. 

It was not in the winter 

Our loving lot was cast; 
It was the time of roses — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 

That churlish season never frowned 

On early lovers yet ! 
O, no — the Avorld was newly crowned 

With flowers when first we met. 

'T was twilight, and I bade you go — 
But still you held me fast ; 

It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 



TRUE DEATH. 

It is not death, that some time in a 

sigh 
This eloquent breath shall take its 

speechless flight; 
That some time these bright stars, 

that now reply 
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in 

night; 
That this warm conscious flesli shall 

perish quite, 
And all life's ruddy springs forget to 

flow; 
That thought shall cease, and the 

immortal sprite 
Be lapped in alien clay and laid be- 
low; 
It is not death to know this — but to 

know 



That pious thoughts, whicli visit at 

new graves 
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 
So duly and so oft, — and when grass 

waves 
Over the i)ast-away, there may be 

then 
No resurrection in the minds of men. 



LOVE BETTERED BY TIME. 

Love, dearest lady, such as I would 

speak. 
Lives not within the humor of the 

eye; 
Not being but an outward phantasy 
That skims the surface of a tinted 

cheek, — 
Else it Mould wane with beauty, and 

grow weak. 
As if the rose made sinnmer — and 

so lie 
Amongst the perishable things that 

die. 
Unlike the love which I would give 

and seek ; 
Whose health is of no hue — to feel 

decay 
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy 

prime. 
Love is its own great loveliness al- 

way. 
And takes new beauties from the 

touch of time ; 
Its bough owns no December and no 

May, 
But bears its blossoms into Avinter's 

clime. 



George Houghton. 

[From Tlic Legend of St. Olafs Kirk.'] 

VALROlia WATCHING AXEVS DEPARTURE. 

At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone 
Reeling beneath her. Filled with choking grief 
She could not say good-bye, but by a page 
Her rosary sent him ; and when he had climbed 
His horse, and on the far-off bridge she heard 



HOUGHTON. 



285 



The dull tramp of his troopers, up she fared 

By stair and ladder to old Steindor's post, — 

Foi' he was mute, and could not nettle her 

With words' cheap guise of sympathy. There perched 

Beside him up among the dusty bells. 

She pushed her face between the nuillions, looked 

Across the world of snow, lighted like day 

By moon and moor-ild ; saw with misty eyes 

A gleam of steel, an eagle's feather tall; 

And through the clear air watched it, tossing, pass 

Across the sea-line ; saw the ship lift sail 

And blow to southward, catching light and shade 

As 'mong the sheers and skerries it picked out 

A crooked pathway; saw it round the ness. 

And, catching one last flicker of the moon, 

Fade into nothingness. With desolate steps 

She left the bellman and crept down the stairs ; 

Heard all the air re-echoing : ' ' He is gone ! " — 

Felt a great sob behind her lips, and tears 

Flooding the sluices of her eyes ; turned toward 

The empty town, and for the first time saw 

That Nidaros was small and irksome, felt 

First time her tether galling, and, by heaven ! 

Wished she'd been born a man-child, free to fare 

Unhindered through the world's wide pastures, free 

To stand this horn- with Axel as his squire. 

And with him brave the sea-breeze. Aimlessly 

She sought the scattered gold-threads that had formed 

Life's glowing texture: but how dull they seemed! 

How bootless the long waste of lagging weeks, 

With dull do-over of mean drudgeries. 

And miserable cheer of pitying mouths 

Whistling and whipping through small roimd of change 

Their cowering pack of saw and circumstance! 

How slow the crutches of the limping years ! 



\_Slx Quatrains from Album-Leaves.'] 
COURAGE. 

Dakkness before, all joy behind ! 
Yet keep thy courage, do not mind : 
He soonest reads the lesson right 
Who reads with back against the 
lisht! 



AMBiTioyr. 

The palace with its splendid dome. 
That nearest to the sky aspires. 

Is first to challenge storms that roam 
Above it, and call down their fires. 



THIS XAME OF MIXE. 

This name of mine the sim may steal 

away, 
Fierce fire consume it, moths eat 

name and day ; 
Or mildew's hand may smooch it with 

decay. — 
But not my love, for that shall live 

alway. 



REGRET. 

I've regretted most sincerely, 
I've repented deeply, long; 

But to those I've loved most dearly, 
I've oftenest done wrong. 



PURITY. 



Let yoixr truth stand sure, 
xViid the world is true ; 

Let your heart keep pure — 
And the world will, too. 



He erred, no doul)t, perhaps he 
sinned ; 
Shall I then dare to cast a stone ? 
Perhaps this blotch, on a garment 
white. 
Counts less than the dingy robes I 
own. 



{From Albiim-Lcares.] 
DAISY. 

I GAVE my little girl back to the 
daisies, 
From them it was that she took her 
name ; 
I gave my precious one back to the 
daisies, 
From where they caught their color 
she came; 
And now, when I look in the face of 
a daisy. 
My little girl's face I see, I see! 
My tears, down dropping, with theirs 
commingle. 
And they give my precious one 
back to me. 



Lord Houghton (Richard Monckton Milnes). 



SIXCE YES TERDA Y. 

I'm not where I was yesterday. 
Though my home be still the same, 
For I have lost the veriest friend 
Whomever a friend could name ; 
I'm not where I was yesterday. 
Though change there be little to see, 
For a part of myself has lapsed away 
From Time to Eternity. 

I have lost a thought that many a 

year 
Was most familiar food 
To my inmost mind, by night or day. 
In merry or plaintive mood ; 
I have lost a hope, that many a year 
Looked far on a gk^aming way. 
When the walls of Life were closing 

round. 
And the sky was sombre gray. 



I thought, how should I see him first, 
How should our hands first meet. 
Within his room, — upon the stair,— 
At the corner of the street ? 
I thought, where should I hear him 
first, 



How catch his greeting tone, — 
And thus I went up io his door, 
And they told me he was gone ! 

Oh ! what is Life but a sum of love, 
And Death but to lose it all ? 
Weeds be for those that are left be- 
hind. 
And not for those that fall ! 
And now how mighty a sum of love 

Is lost for ever to me 

No, I'm not what I was yesterday. 
Though change there be little to see. 



LABOR. 



Heart of the people! Working men! 
Marrow and nerve of human powers; 
Who on your stm-dy backs sustain 
Through streaming time this world 

of ours ; 
Hold by that title, — whicli pro- 
claims, 
That ye are undismayed and strong, 
Accomplishing whatever aims 
May to the sons of earth belong. 






HOUGHTON. 



287 



And he who still and silent sits 
In closed room or shady nook, 
And seems to nurse his idle wits 
AVith folded arms oroi^en book: — 
To things now working in that mind, 
Your children's children well may 

owe 
Blessings that hope has ne'er defined 
Till from his busy thoughts they flow. 

Thus all must work — with head or 

hand, 
For self or others, good or ill : 
Life is ordained to bear, like land. 
Some fruit, be fallow as it will ; 
Evil has force itself to sow 
Where we deny the healthy seed, — 
And all our choice is this, — to grow 
Pasture and grain or noisome weed. 

Then in content possess your hearts, 
Unenvious of each other's lot, — 
For those which seem the easiest parts 
Have travail which ye reckon not: 
And lie is bravest, happiest, best. 
Who. from the task within his span 
Earns for himself his evening rest, 
And an increase of good for man. 




/ WAKDEnED BY THE BROOK- 
SIDE. 

I WANDERED by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill, — 

I could not hear the brook flow, 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper. 

No chirp of any bird. " 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree, 

I watched the long, long shade, 

And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word, — 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



He came not, — no, he came not, — 
The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat one by one. 
Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air passed by my cheek, 
The leaves above svere stirred ; 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind, 
A hand was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kind: 
It drew me nearer — nearer. 
We did not speak one word ; 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 



THE WORTH OF HOURS. 

Believe not that your inner eye 
Can ever in just measure try 
The worth of hours as they go by : 

For every man's weak self, alas! 
Makes him to see them, while they 

pass. 
As through a dim or tinted glass : 

But if in earnest care you would 
Mete out to each its part of good. 
Trust rather to your after-mood. 

Those surely are not fairly spent. 
That leave your spirit bowed and 

bent 
In sad unrest and ill-content : 

And more, — though free from seem- 
ing harm. 
You rest from toil of mind or arm, 
Or slow retire from Pleasure's 
charm, — 

If then a painful sense comes on 
Of something wholly lost and gone, 
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done, — 

Of something from your being's 

chain, 
Broke otf, nor to be linked again 
By all mere memory can retain. — 




HOUOHTON. 



Upon yoiu' heart this truth may 

rise, — 
jSTotliing that altogether dies 
Suffices man's just destinies: 

So should we live, that every hour 
May die as dies the natural flower, — 
A self-reviving thing of power; 

That every thought and every deed 
May hold within itself the seed 
Of future good and future need : 

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
Is to develop not destroy. 
Far better than a barren joy. 



FOREVER UNCONFESSED. 

They seemed to those who saw them 

meet 
The worldly friends of every day, 
Her smile was undisturbed and 

sweet, 
His coiu'tesy was free and gay. 

But yet if one the other's name 
In some unguarded moment heard. 
The heart you thought so calm and 

tame. 
Would struggle like a captured bird : 

And letters of mere formal phrase 
Were blistered with repeated tears. — 
And this was not the work of days. 
But had gone on for years and 



years 



Alas, that Love was not too strong 
For maiden shame and manly pride ! 
Alas, that they delayed too long 
The goal of mutual bliss beside. 

Tet what no chance could then re- 
veal. 
And neither would be first to own, 
Let fate and courage now conceal, 
When truth could bring remorse 
alone. 



DIVORCED. 

We that were friends, yet are not 
now, 

AYe that must daily meet 
AVith ready words and courteous 
bow. 

Acquaintance of the street; 
We must not scorn the holy past, 

We nuist remember still 
To honor feelings that outlast 

The reason and the will. 



I Height reprove tliy broken faith, 

I might recall the time 
When thou wert chartered mine till 
death. 

Through every fate and clime ; 
When every letter was a vow, 

And fancy was not free 
To dream of ended love; and thou 

Wouldst say the same of me. 

No, no, 'tis not for us to trim 

The balance of our wrongs. 
Enough to leave remorse to him 

To whom remorse belongs! 
Let our dead friendshii) be to us 

A desecrated name, 
LTnutterable, mysterious, 

A sorrow and a shame. 

A sorrow that two souls Mhich 
grew 
Encased in mutual bliss. 
Should wander, callous strangers, 
through 
So cold a woi'ld as this ! 
A shame that we, whose hearts had 
earned 
For life an early heaven. 
Should be like angels self-returned 
To Death, when once forgiven! 



Let us remain as living signs. 

Where they that run may read 
Pain and disgrace in many lines, 

As of a loss indeed ; 
That of our fellows any who 

The prize of love have won 
May tremble at the thought to do 

The thing that we have done ! 



mf2 



HOWE. 



289 



ALL THINGS ONCE ARE THINGS 
FOR EVER. 

All things oneo are things forever; 
Soul, once living, lives for ever; 
Bla]ne not \vliat is only once. 
When tliat once endures for ever; 
Love, once felt, though soon forgot 
Moulds the heart to good for ever ; 



Once betrayed from childly faith, 
Man is conscious man for ever; 
Once the void of life revealed, 
It must dee^jen on for ever. 
Unless God fill up the heart 
Witli himself for once and ever: 
Once made God and man at once, 
God and man are one for ever. 



Julia Ward Howe. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 

coming of the Lord ; 
He is tramiDling out the vintage where 

the grapes of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning 

of his terrible swift sword, 
His trutli is marching on. 

I have' seen him in the watch-fires of 
a hundred circling camps; 

They have builded him an altar in the 
evening dews and damps ; 

I can read his righteous sentence by 
the dim and flaring lamps. 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bui-- 

nished rows of steel: 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so 

with you my grace shall deal ; 
Let the hero, born of woman, crush 

the serpent with his heel. 
Since God is marching on ! " 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 
shall never call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men be- 
fore his judgment-seat ; 

Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer him ! 
be jubilant, my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
born across the sea. 

With a glory in his bosom that trans- 
figures you and me ; 



As he died to make men holy, let us 
die to make men free, 

While God is marching on ! 



[From Thouyhts in Pere la Chaise.] 

IMAGINED REPLY OF E LOIS A TO 
THE POET'S QUESTIONING. 

' ' What was I cannot tell — thou 
know' St our story. 

Know' St how we stole God's treasure 
from on high ; 

Without heaven's virtue we had heav- 
en's glory. 

Too justly our delights were doomed 
to die. 

" Intense as were our blisses, e'en so 
painful 

The keen privation it was ours to 
share ; 

All states, all places barren proved 
and baneful. 

Dead stones grew pitiful at our de- 
spair; 

"Till, to the cloister's solitude re- 
pairing. 

Our feet the way of holier sorrows 
trod , 

Hid from each other, yet together 
sharing 

The labor of the Providence of God. 






290 



HOWE. 



" Often at midnight, on the cold stone 

My passionate sobs have rent the pas- 
sive air, 

While iny crisped fingers clutched the 
pavement, trying 

To hold him fast, as he had still been 
there. 

" I called, I shrieked, till my spent 

breath came faintly, 
I sank, in pain Christ's martyrs could 

not bear; 
Then dreamed I saw him, beautiful 

and saintly. 
As his far convent tolled the hour of 

prayer. 

" Solemn and deep that vision of re- 
union — 

He passed in robe, and cowl, and san- 
dall'd feet, 

But ovu- dissever' d lips held no com- 
munion. 

Our long divorced glances could not 
meet. 

" Then slowly, from that hunger of 
sensation. 

That rage for happiness, which makes 
it sin, 

I rose to calmer, wider contemplation, 

And knew the Holiest, and his disci- 
pline. 

''O thou who call' St on me! if that 
thou bearest 

A wounded heart beneath thy wom- 
an's vest. 

If thou my mournful earthly fortune 
sharest. 

Share the high hopes that calmed my 
fever' d breast. 

"Not vainly do I boast Eeligion's 
power, 

Faith dawned upon the eyes with Sor- 
row dim ; 

I toiled and trusted, till there came 
an hovu 

That saw me sleep in God, and wake 
with him. 



" Seek comfort thus, for all life's 
painful losing. 

Compel from Sorrow merit and re- 
ward. 

And sometimes wile a mournful hour 
in musing 

How Eloisa loved her Abelard." 

The voice fled heav'nward ere its 
spell was broken, — 

I stretched a tremulous hand within 
the grate. 

And bore away a ravished rose, in 
token 

Of woman's highest love and hard- 
est fate. 



STANZAS FllOM THE " TRIBUTE 
TO A SERVANT." 

Oh! grief that wring' st mine eyes 

with tears. 
Demand not from my lips a song ; 
That fated gift of early years 
I've loved too well, I've nursed too 

long. 

Wliat boot my verses to the heart 
That breath of mine no more shall 

stir ? 
Where were the piety of Art, 
If thou wert silent over her ? 

This was a maiden, light of foot, 
Whose bloom and laughter, fresh and 

free. 
Flitted like sunshine, in and out 
Among my little ones and me. 

Hers was the poAver to quell and 

charm ; 
The ready wit that children love ; 
The faithful breast, the shielding 

arm 
Pillowed in sleep my tenderest dove. 

She played in all the nurseiy plays, 
She ruled in all its little strife; 
A thousand genial ways endeared 
Her presence to my daily life. 



She ranged my liair with gem or 

flower. 
Careful, the festal draperies hung, 
Or plied her needle, horn- by hour 
In cadence with the song 1 sung. 

My highest joy she could not share, 
Nor fathom sorrow's deep abyss; 
For that, she wore a smiling air, 
She hung her head and pined for this. 

" And she shall live with me," I said, 
" Till all my pretty ones be grown; 
I'll give my girls my little maid, 
The gayest thing I call my own." 

Or else, methought, some farmer bold 

Should woo and win my gentle Liz- 
zie, 

And I should stock her house four- 
fold. 

Be with her wedding blithely busy. 

But lo! Consumption's spectral form 
Sucks from her lips the flickering 

breath ; 
In these pale flowers, these tear-drops 

warm, 
I bring the momnif ul dower of Death. 

I could but say, with faltering voice 
And eyes that glanced aside to weep, 
" Be strong in faith and hope, my 

child; 
He giveth his beloved sleep. 

" And though thou walk the shadowy 

vale. 
Whose end we know not. He will aid ; 
His rod and staff shall stay thy steps ; " 
"I know it well," she smiled and said. 

She knew it well, and knew yet more 
My deepest hope, though unexprest, 
The hope that God's appointed sleep 
But heightens ravishment with rest. 

My children, living flowers, shall come 
And strew with seed this grave of 

thine. 
And bid the blushing growths of 

spring 
Thy dreary painted cross entwine. 



Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, 
Shall rest in emblems of her own; 
Beauty, still springing from Decay, 
The cross- wood budding to the crown. 



THE DEAD CHRIST. 

Take the dead Christ to my chamber, 

The Christ I brought from Rome ; 
Over all the tossing ocean. 

He has reached his western home; 
Bear him as in procession, 

And lay him solemnly 
Where, through weary night and 
morning, 

He shall bear me company. 

The name I bear is other 

Than than that I bore by birth, 
And I've given life to children 

Who'll grow and dwell on earth; 
But the time comes swiftly towards 
me 

(jSJ"or do I bid it stay), 
When the dead Christ will be more 
to me 

Than all I hold to-day. 

Lay the dead Christ beside me. 

Oh, press him on my heart, 
I would hold him long and painfully 

Till the weary tears should start; 
Till the divine contagion 

Heal me of self and sin, 
And the cold weight press wholly 
down 

The pulse that chokes within. 

Reproof and frost, they fret me. 

Towards the free, the sunny lands. 
From the chaos of existence 

I stretch these feeble hands ; 
And, penitential, kneeling, 

Pray God would not be wroth. 
Who gave not the strength of feeling. 

And strength of labor both. 

Thou'rt but a wooden carving. 
Defaced of worms, and old ; 

Yet more to me thou couldst not be 
Wert thou all wrapt in gold • 



292 



HO WELLS. 



Like the gem-bedizened baby 
Wliicli, at tlie Twelftli-day noon, 

They show t'roni tlie Ara Coeli's steps, 
To a uierry dancing-tune. 

I ask of tliee no wonders. 
No changing white or red ; 



I dream not thou art hving, 
I love and prize tliee dead. 

Tliat salutary deadness 
I seek, through want and pain, 

From which God's own high power 
can bid 
Oui" virtue rise again. 



William Deane Howells. 



THE MYSTERIES. 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, 
I crept, 
Holding my breath ; 
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, 
and wept 
At the dark mystery of Death. 

Weary and weak, and worn with all 
unrest, 
Spent with the strife. — 
O motlier, let me weep upon thy 
breast 
At the sad mystery of Life ! 



THANKS GI VING. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought: 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still : 
For the heart from itself kept. 
Our thanksgiving accept. 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer: 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good. 
Quicken our gratitude. 



convention: 

He falters on the threshold. 
She lingers on the stair; 

Can it be that was his footstep ? 
Can it be that she is there ? 



Without is tender yearning. 
And tender love is within ; 

They can hear each other's heart- 
beats. 
But a wooden door is between. 



the POET'S FRIENDS. 

The robin sings in the elm ; 

The cattle stand beneath 
Sedate and grave with great brown 
eyes 

And fragrant meadow-breath. 



They listen to the flattered bird. 
The wise-looking, stupid things; 

And they never understand a word 
Of all the robin sings. 



THE MULBERRIES. 

On the Rialto Bridge we stand ; 
The street ebbs under and makes 
no sound ; 
But, with bargains shrieked on every 
hand. 
The noisy market rings aromid. 

" Mttlberries, fine mulberries, here! "' 
A tuneful voice, — and light, light 
measure ; 
Though I hardly should coimt tliese 
mulberries dear, 
If I paid three times the price for 
my pleasm-e. 



HO WE LIS. 



293 



Brown hands splashed with mulberry 
blood, 
The basket wreathed with mulber- 
ry leaves 
Hiding the berries beneath them; — 
good! 
Let us take whatever the young 
rogue gives. 

For you know, old friend, I haven 't 
eaten 
A mulberry since the ignorant joy 
Of anything sweet in the mouth could 
sweeten 
All this bitter world for a boy. 

O. I mind the tree in the meadow 
stood 
By the road near the hill: where I 
climbed aloof 
On its branches, this side of the gir- 
dled wood, 
I could see the top of our cabin 
roof. 

And, looking westward, coidd sweep 
the shores 
Of the river where we used to swim, 
Uniler the ghostly sycamores. 

Haunting the waters smooth and 
dim ; 

And eastward athwart the pasture- 
lot 
And over the milk-white buck- 
wheat field 
I coidd see the stately elm, where I 
shot 
The first black squirrel I ever 
killed. 

And southward over the bottom-land 
I could see the mellow breadth of 
farm 
From the river-shores to the hills 
expand. 
Clasped in the curving river's 
arm. 

In the fields we set our guileless 
snares 
For rabbits and i^igeons and wary 
quails, 



Content with vaguest feathers and 
hairs 
Fro7n doubtful wings and vanished 
tails. 

And in the blue siunmer afternoon 

We used to sit in the mulberi^-tree ; 
The breaths of wind that remem- 
bered June 
Shook the leaves and glittering 
berries free; 

And while we watched the wagons go 
Across the river, along the road, 

To the mill above, or the mill below, 
With horses that stooped to the 
heavy load, 

We told old stories and made new 
plans. 
And felt our hearts gladden within 
us again, 
For we did not dream that this life of 
a man's 
Could ever be what we know as 
men. 

We sat so still that the woodpeckers 
came 
And pillaged the berries overhead; 
From his log the chipmonk, waxen 
tame, 
Peered and listened to what we 
said. 

One of us long ago was carried 

To his grave on the hill above the 
tree ; 

One is a farmer there, and married ; 
One has wandered over the sea. 

And, if you ask me. I hardly know 
Wh other I'd be the- dead or the 
clown, — 
The clod above or the clay below. — 
Or this listless dust by fortune 
blown 

To alien lands. For, however it is. 
So little we keep with us in life ; 

At best we win only victories, 
Not peace, not peace, O friend, in 
this strife. 



294 



HOW ITT. 



But if I could turn from the long de- 
feat 
Of the httle successes once more, 
and be 
A boy, with the whole wide world 
at my feet 
Under the shade of the mulberry 
tree, — 

From the shame of tlie squandered 
chances, the sleep 
Of the will that cannot itself 
awaken, 
From the promise tlie future can 
never keep. 
From tlie fitful purposes vague and 
shaken, — 

Then, while the grasshopper simgout 
shrill 
In th(» grass beneath the blanching 
thistle. 
And the afternoon air, with a tender 
thrill. 
Harked to the quail's complaining 
whistle, — 



Ah me ! should I paint the morrows 
again 
In quite the colors so faint to- 
day, 
And with the imperial mulberry's 
stain 
Re-purple life's doublet of hodden- 
gray ? 

Know again the losses of disillu- 
sion ? 
For the sake of the hope, have the 
old deceit ? — 
In spite of the question's bitter in- 
fusion. 
Don't you find these nuilberries 
over-sweet ? 

All our atoms are clianged, they 
say; 
And the taste is so different since 
then : 
We live, but a world has passed 
away. 
With tlie years that perished to 
make us men. 



Mary Howitt. 



THE BR O OM-FL O IV Eli. 

Oh, the broom, the yellow broom ! 

The ancient poet sung it, 
And dear it is on summer days 

To lie at rest among it. 

I know the realms where people say 
Tlie flowers have not their fellow; 

I know where they shine out like 
suns, 
Tlie crimson and the yellow. 

I know where ladies live encliained 

In luxury's silken fetters. 
And flowers as bright as glittering 
gems 

Are used for written letters. 

But ne'er was flower so fair as this. 
In modern days or olden ; 



It groweth on its nodding stem 
Like to a garland golden. 

And all about my mother's door 
Shine out its glittering bushes. 

And down the glen, where clear as 
light 
Tlie mountain-water gushes. 

Take all tlie rest; but give me 
this, 

And the bird that nestles in it; 
I love it, for it loves the broom — 

The green and yellow linnet. 

Well, call the rose the queen of flow- 
ers, 

And boast of that of Sharon, 
Of lilies like to marble cups. 

And the golden rod of xiaron ; 



HO WITT. 



295 



I care not how these flowers may be 
Beloved of man and Avoman ; 

The broom it Is the flower for me, 
That groweth on the conunon. 

Oh, the broom, the yellow brpom! 

The ancient poet sung it, 
And dear it is on summer days 

To lie and rest among it. 



TIBBIE INGLIS. 

Bonnie Tibbie Inglis! 

Through sun and stormy weather, 
She kept upon the broomy hills 

Her father's flock together. 

Sixteen summers had she seen, — 
A rosebud just unsealing; 

Without sorrow, without fear. 
In her mountain shealing. 

She was made for happy thoughts, 
For playful wit and laughter; 

Singing on the hills alone. 
With echo singing after. 

She had hair as deeply black 

As the cloud of thunder; 
She had brows so beautiful. 

And dark eyes flashing under. 

Bright and witty shepherd girl, 
Beside a mountain water, 

I found her, whom a king himself 
Would proudly call his daughter. 

She was sitting 'niong the crags. 
Wild and mossed and hoary, 

Reading in an ancient book 
Some old martyr story. 

Tears were starting to her eyes, 
Solemn thought was o'er her; 

When she saw in that lone place 
A stranger stand before her. 

Crimson was her sunny cheek, 
And lier lips seemed moving 

With the beatings of her lieart; — 
How could I help loving ? 



On a crag I sat me down. 

Upon the mountain hoary, 
And made her read again to me 

That old pathetic story. 

Then she sang me mountain songs, 

Till the air was ringing 
With her clear and warbling voiee, 

Like a skylark singing. 

And when eve came on at length, 
Among the blooming heather, 

"We herded on the mountain-side 
Her father's flock together. 

And near unto her father's house 
I said " Good night ! " with sorrow, 

And inly wished that I might say, 
" We'll meet again to-morrow." 

I watched her tripping to her home ; 

I saw her meet her mother ; 
'' Among a thousand maids," I cried, 

" There is not such another! " 

I wandered to my scholar's home, 
It lonesome looked and dreary; 

I took my books, but could not read, 
Methought that I was weary. 

I laid me down upon my bed. 
My heart with sadness laden ; 

I dreamed but of the mountain world. 
And of the moimtain maiden. 

I saw her of the ancient book 
The pages turning slowly ; 

I saw her lovely crimson cheek 
And dark eyes drooping lowly. 

The dream was like the day's delight, 
A life of pain's o'erpayment: 

I rose, and with unwonted care, 
Put on my Sabbath raiment. 

To none I told my secret thoughts. 

Not even to my mother, 
Nor to the friend who, from my youth, 

Was dear as is a brother. 

I got me to the hills again; 

The little flock was feeding: 
And there young Tibbie Inglis sat. 

But not the old book reading. 



She sat as if absorbing thought 
With heavy spells had bound her, 

As silent as the mossy crags 
Upon the mountains round her. 

I thought not of my Sabbath dress ; 

I thought not of my learning: 
I thouglit but of the gentle maid 

Who, 1 believed, was mourning. 

Bonnie Tibbie Inglis! 

How her beauty brightened 
Looking at me, half-abashed, 

With eyes that flamed and light- 
ened ! 

There was no sorrow, then I saw, 
There was no thought of sadness : 



life! what after-joy hast thou 
Like love's first certain gladness? 

1 sat me down among the crags. 
Upon the moinitain hoary; 

But read not then the ancient book, — 
Love was our pleasant story. 

And then she sang me songs again. 

Old songs of love and sorrow : 
For our sufficient happiness 

Great charms from woe could bor- 
row. 

And many hours we talked in joy. 
Yet too much blessed for laughter: 

I was a bappy man that day. 
And happy ever after ! 



William Howitt. 



DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. 



And is the swallow gone ? 

Who beheld it ? 

Which way sailed it ? 
Farewell bade it none ? 

No mortal saw it go: — 
But who doth hear 
Its summer cheer 

As it flitteth to and fro ? 



So the freed spirit flies ! 

From its surrounding clay- 
It steals away 

Like the swallow from the skies. 

Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 

'Tis all unknown; 

AVe feel alone 
What a void is left below. 



Ralph Hoyt. 



OLD. 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly mus- 
ing; 
Oft I marked him sitting there 
alone. 
All the landscape like a page perus- 
ing; 

Poor, unknown — 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 



Buckled knee and shoe, and broad- 
rimmed hat; 
Coat as ancient as the form 'twas 
folding; 
Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt 
cravat ; 
Oaken staff, liis feeble hand up- 
holding — 
There he sat ! 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad- 
rimmed hat. 



HOYT. 



297 



Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
No one sympathizing, no one heed- 
ing — 
None to love him for his thin gray 
hair. 
And the furrows all so mutely 
pleading 
Age and care — 
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was summer, and we went to 
school — 
Dapper coimtry lads, and little 
maidens ; 
Taught the motto of the "Dunce's 
stool," 
Its grave import still my fancy 
ladens — 

" Here's a fool!" 
It was summer, and we went to 
school. 

Wlien the stranger seemed to mark 
our play. 
Some of us were joyous, some sad- 
hearted ; 
I remember well — too well that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden 
started. 
Would not stay, 
Wlien the stranger seemed to mark 
our play. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent 
spell — 
Ah, to me her name was always 
heaven ! 
She besought him all his grief to tell, 
(I was then thirteen, and she 
eleven,) — 
Isabel ! 
One sweet spirit broke the silent 
spell. 

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old — 
Earthly hope no longer hath a 
morrow ; 
Yet why I sit here thou shalt be 

told," 
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sor- 
row; 
Down it rolled. 
" Angel," said he sadly. " I am old! 



' ' I have tottered here to look once 
more 
On the pleasant scene where I de- 
lighted 
In the careless happy days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was 
blighted 

To the core — 
I have tottered here to look once 
more ! 

' ' All the picture now to me how 
dear ! 
E'en this gray old rock where I am 
seated 
Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
Ah, that such a scene must be 
completed 
With a tear! 
All the picture now to me how dear ! 

"Old stone school-house! — it is still 
the same ! 
There's the very step I so oft 
mounted ; 
There's the window creaking in its 
frame, 
And the notches that I cut and 
counted 

For the game ; 
Old stone school-house! — it is still 
the same ! 

" In the cottage yonder, I was born; 
Long my happy home — that hum- 
ble dwelling; 
There the fields of clover, wheat, and 
corn — 
There the spring, with limpid nec- 
tar swelling"; 
Ah, forlorn! 
In the cottage yonder, I was born. 

' ' Those two gateway sycamores you 
see 
Then were planted just so far 
as under 
That long well-pole from the path to 
free, 
And the wagon to pass safely under ; 
Ninety-three ! 
Those two gateway sycamores you 
see. 



298 



IIOYT. 



" There's the orchard where we used 
to climb 
When my mates and I were boys 
together — 
Thinking nothing of tlie fliglit of 
time, 
Fearing nauglit but work and rainy 
weatlier; 

Past its prime ! 
There's tlie orcliard where we used to 
cUmb ! 

"There tlie rude, three-cornered 
chestnut rails, 
Eound the pasture where the flocks 
were grazing. 
Where, so sly, I used to watch for 
quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were 
raising — 

Traps and trails ; 
There the rude, three-cornered chest- 
nut rails. 

" There's the mill that ground our yel- 
low grain — 
Pond, and river, still serenely flow- 
ing; 
Cot, there nestling in the shaded 
lane 
Where the lily of my heart was 
blowing — 
Mary Jane! 
There's the mill tliat ground our yel- 
low grain ! 

" There's the gate on which I used to 
swing — 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and 
old red stable ; 
But alas! no more the morn shall 
bring 
That dear group around my father's 
table — 

Taken wing! 
There's the gate on which I used to 



swing 



"I am fleeing — all I loved have 
fled. 
Yon green meadow was oiu' place 
for playing; 



That old tree can tell of sweet things 
said 
When around it Jane and I were 
straying — 
She is dead ! 
I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 

• ■ Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. 
Tracing silently life's changeful 
story, 
So familiar to my dim old eye. 
Points me to seven that are now in 
glory 

There on high — 
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 

" Oft the aisle of that old church we 
trod. 
Guided thither by an angel mother; 
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
Sire and sisters, and my little 
brother 
Gone to God ! 
Oft the aisle of that old church we 
trod. 

'• There 1 heard of wisdom's pleasant 
ways — 
Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah ! 
never 
Shall I hear again those songs of 
praise. 
Those sweet voices — silent now 
forever! 

Peaceful days! 
There I heard of wisdom's pleasant 
ways. 

' ' Tliere my Mary blessed me with her 
hand 
When our souls drank in the nup- 
tial blessing, 
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land — 
Yonder turf her gentle bosom 
pressing; 

Broken band ! 
There my Mai^ blessed me with her 
hand. 

' • I have come to see that grave once 
more. 
And the sacred place where we de- 
lighted. 



HUNT. 



299 



Where we worshipped, in the days of 
yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was 
blighted 
To tlie core ; 
I have come to see tliat grave once 
more. 

"Angel," said he sadly, " I am old — 
Earthly hope no longer hath a 

morrow ; 
Now why I sit here thou hast been 

told," 



In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled ! 
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old! 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly nuis- 
ing; 
Still I marked him sitting there 
alone. 
All the landscape like a page 
perusing — 

Poor, unknown. 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 



Leigh Hunt. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in- 
crease!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream 
of peace. 

And saw within the moonlight in 
his room. 

Making it rich and like a lily in 
bloom. 

An angel writing in a book of gold : 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Ad- 
hem bold. 

And to the presence in the room he 
said, 

"What writest thou?" The vision 
raised its head. 

And, with a look made of all sweet 
accord. 

Answered. " The names of those who 
love the Lord." 

" And, is mine one?" said Abou. 
" Nay, not so," 

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more 
low. 

But cheerly still ; and said, "I pray 
thee, then. 

Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The 

next night 
It came again, with a great wakening 

light. 



And showed the names whom love of 

God had blessed, — 
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all 

rest ! 



STANZAS FROM SONG OF THE 
FLOWERS. 

We are the sweet flowers. 
Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us what our 
beauty saith;) 
Utterance, mute and bright. 
Of some xmknown delight. 
We fill the air with pleasau'e by our 
simple breath: 
All who see us love us — 
We befit all i^laces, 
Unto sorrow we give smiles — and 
unto graces, graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless. 
Though the March winds pipe to make 
our passage clear; 
Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells 
Nor is known the moment green when 
our tips appear. 
We thread the earth in silence 
In silence build our bowers — 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till 
we laugh a-top, sweet flowers! 



3U0 



HUNT. 



See (and scorn all duller 
Taste) how Heaven loves color; 
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red 
and green; 
What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of violets and pinks, 
And a thousand flushing hues made 
solely to be seen : 
See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her rose, 
the woman of the flowers. 

Uselessness divinest. 
Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end 
of use ; 
Travellers, weary-eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we 
give sudden truce: 
Not a poor town window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall s])eaks loftier truth than 
Babylonian vaunting. 

Sagest yet the uses 
Mixed with our sweet juices. 
Whether man or May-fly profit of the 
balm ; 
As fair fingers healed 
Knights from the olden field. 
We hold cups of mightiest force to 
give the wildest calm. 
Even the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though 
death to the presuming. 



Think of all these treasures, 
Matchless works and pleasures 
Every one a marvel, more than 
thought can say ; 
Then think in what bright show- 
ers 
We thicken fields and bowei's. 
And with what heaps of sweetness 
half stifle wanton May: 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted. 
And all those Amazonian plains lone 
lying as enchanted. 



Trees themselves are ours : 
Fruits are born of flowers; 
Peach and roughest nut were blos- 
soms in the spring; 
Tlie lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell, 
And dances in the gloomy thicks with 
darksome antheming; 
Beneatli the very burden 
Of planet-pressing ocean. 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace 
— a thought for meek devotion. 



Who shall say that flowers 
Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 
Who its love, without us, can fancy — 
or sweet floor ? 
Who shall even dare 
To say we sprang not there — 
And came not down, that Love might 
bring one piece of heaven the 
more ? 
Oh ! pray believe that angels 
From those blue dominions 
Brought us in their white laps dowTi, 
■ twixt their golden pinions. 



THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
CRICKET. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny 
grass. 

Catching your heart up at the feel of 
June, — 

Sole voice that's heard amid the lazy 
noon, 

When even the bees lag at the sum- 
moning brass ; 

And you, warm little housekeeper, 
who class 

With those who think the candles 
come too soon, 

Loving the fire, and with your trick- 
some tune 

Nick the glad silent moments as they 
pass ! 

O sweet and tiny cousins that be- 
long. 

One to the fields, the other to the 
hearth. 



'm 



INGE LOW. 



301 



Both have your sunshine ; both, 
though small, are strong 

At your clear hearts ; and both seem 
given to earth 

To sing in thouglitful ears this nat- 
ural song, — 

In doors and out, summer and winter, 
mirth. 



MAY AND THE POETS. 

There is May in books forever; 
May will part from Spenser never; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books: — 
She has old and modern nooks, 
Where she sleeps with nymplis and 

elves. 
In happy places they call shelves. 
And will rise and dress your rooms 
With a drapery tliick with blooms. 
Come, ye rains, then if ye will. 
May's at home, and with me still; 
But come rather, thou, good weather. 
And find us in the fields together. 



I)EA TH. 

Death is a road our dearest friends 

have gone ; 
Why with such leaders, fear to say, 

" Lead on ? " 
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be 

tried. 
But turns in balm on the immortal 

side. 
Mothers have ijassed it : fathers, chil- 
dren; men 
Whose like we look not to behold 

again ; 
Women that smiled away their lov- 
ing breath ; 
Soft is tlie travelling on the road to 

death ! 
But guilt has passed it ? men not fit to 

die ? 
Oh, hush — for He that made us all 

is by! 
Human we're all — all men, all born 

of mothers ; 
All our own selves in the worn-out 

shape of others ; 
Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be 

iii-used brothers ! 



Jean Ingelow. 

SONGS OF SEVEN. 
SEVEN TIMES ONE. — EXULTATION. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 

There's no rain left in heaven; 
I've said my " seven times " over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 



I am old, so old, I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done : 
The lambs play always, they know no better; 

They are only one times one. 

O moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shininir so round and low; 
You were briglit! ah, bright! but your light is failing, - 

You are nothing now but a bow. 



302 



IN O FLOW. 



You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 

That God has hidden your face ? 
I hope if you have, you will soon he forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow. 

You've powdered your legs with gold! 
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 

Give nie your money to hold ! 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper. 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ? 

cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me yoiu- nest with the young ones in it ; 
I will not steal them away; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — 
I am seven times one to-day. 

SEVEN TIMES TWO. — IJOMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be, 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

Tlie fortune of future days. 

" Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

While a boy listened alone; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover 

You leave the stoiy to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather 

Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 

Oh I children take long to grow. 

1 wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 

While dear hands are laid on my head; 
" Tlie child is a woman, the book may close over, 

For all the lessons are said." 



INGE LOW. 



303 



I wait for my story, — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as lie sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it! 

Such as I wish it to be. 

SEVEX TIMES THREE. — LOVE. 

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover. 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover, — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near. 
For my lo\ e he is late ! 

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? 
Let the star-clusters grow. 
Let the sweet waters flow. 
And cross quickly to me. 

" You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
Tohim that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
All, my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep, — 

" Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, 

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before. 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. — MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, 

Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ; 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow. 

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow, 

Sing once, and sing it again. 



INGE LOW. 



ao5 



SEVEN TIMES SIX. — GIVING IN MAEKIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bric^ht ones disappear, 

Drawn \\\) like morning dews, — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose: 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart, — 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind! 

To (iod I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears, — 
O fond, O fool, and blind'. 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

Fair lot that maidens choose. 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 

Thy face no more she views; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear. 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love, — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. 



LONGIN<J FOE HOME. 



A song of a boat : — 

There was once a boat on a billow: 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, 

And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

AVent curtsying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote. 

She faded out on the moonlit foam. 

And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 

And my dreams upon the pillow. 



306 



INGE LOW. 



I pray you hear my song of a boat 

For it is but short : — 
My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long 1 looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea. 
And I think lie sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah me! 

A song of a nest : — 
Tliere was once a nest in a hollow : 
Down in tlie mosses and linot-grass pressed, 
Soft and warm and full to the brim — 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 



I had a nestful once of my own, 

Ah, happy, happy I! 
Eight dearly I loved them; but when they were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly — 
Oh, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going too. 

I pray you wliat is the nest to me. 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to tlie west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 
Tliougli my good man has sailed ? 
Can 1 call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be: 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent. 

The only home for me — 

Ah me ! 




AS I CAME ROUND THE HARBOR BUOY. 



Page 307. 



INGE LOW. 



307 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, 
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, my love! — what can it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by. 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me, thy man, now the song begins: 
" All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, 
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 



As I came round the harbor buoy, 

The lights began to gleam. 
No wave the land-locked water 
stirred. 

The crags were Avhite as cream ; 
And I marked my love by candle- 
light 

Sewing her long white seam. 
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear. 

Watch and steer at sea. 
It's I'eef and furl, and haul the line, • 

Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door; 

Oh, sweetly my love sings ! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks 
forth. 

My soul to meet it springs, 
As the shining Avater leaped of old. 

When stirred by angel wings. 



Aye longing to list anew. 

Awake and in my dream. 
But never a song she sang like this. 

Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor 
lights. 
That brought me in to thee. 
And peace drop down on that low 
roof 
For the sight that I did see. 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so 
clear 
All for the love of me. 
For oh, for oh, with brows bent 
low 
By the candle's flickering gleam, 
Her wedding -gown it was she 
wrought. 
Sewing the long white seam. 



308 



JOHNSON. 



Samuel Johnson 

[From Vanity of Hitman Wishes.] 
ENVIABLE AGE. 



But grant, the virtues of a temperate 
prime, 

Bless with an age exempt from scorn 
or crime ; 

An age that melts with unperceived 
decay, 

And gUdes in modest innocence away ; 

Whose peaceful day, benevolence en- 
dears, 

Whose night congratulating con- 
science cheers; 

The general favorite as the general 
friend : 

Such age there is, and who shall wish 
its end ? 



[From Vanity of Human Wishes.] 

WISDOM'S PliA YER. 

Where then shall Hope and Fear 
their objects find '? 

Must dull suspense corrupt the stag- 
nant mind ? 

Must helpless man, in ignorance se- 
date, 

Roll darkling down the torrent of his 
fate ? 

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes 
rise ; 

No cries invoke the mercies of the 
skies ? 

Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain, 

Which Heaven may hear, nor deem 
religion vain. 

Still raise'for good the supplicating 
voice. 

But leave to Heaven the measure and 
the choice. 

Safe in His power, whose eyes discern 
afar 

The secret ambush of a specious 
prayer; 

Implore I lis aid, in His decisions rest. 

Secure whate'er He gives. He gives 
the best. 



Yet, when the sense of sacred pres- 
ence fires, 

And strong devotion to the skies as- 
pires, 

Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful 
mind, 

Obedient passions, and a A\ill re- 
signed : 

For love, which scarce collective man 
can fill; 

For patience, sovereign o'er trans- 
muted ill; 

For faith, that, panting for a happier 
seat. 

Counts death, kind Nature's signal of 
retreat: 

These goods for man the laws of 
Heaven ordain. 

These goods He grants, who grants 
the power to gain ; 

With these celestial Wisdom calms 
the mind, 

And makes the happiness she does 
not find. 



[From Vanity of Human Wishes.] 
CHARLES All. 

On what foundation stanils the 

warrior' s pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish 

Charles decide: 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labors 

tire; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide 

domain, 
Unconquerod lord of pleasure and of 

pain. 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to 

the field; 
Behold surrounding kings their pow- 
ers combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads 

her charms in vain; 
"Think nothing gained," he cries, 

" till naught remain, 



On Moscow's walls till Gothic stand- 
ards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar 

sky.'' 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended, 

wait; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary 

coast 
And Winter barricades the realms of 

frost ; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his 

course delay ; 
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's 

day! 
The vanquished hero leaves his 

broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant 

lands; 
Condemned a needy suppliant to 

wait, 
While ladies interpose and slaves de- 
bate. 
But did not Chance at length her 

error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his 

end ? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal 

wo mid. 
Or hostile millions press him to the 

ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren 

strand, 
A petty fortress and a dubious 

hand ; 
He left a name at which the world 

grew pale, 
To point a moral or adorn a tale. 



[Froin London.] 
THE FATE OF POVERTY. 

By numbers here from shame or 

censure free, 
All crimes are safe but hated poverty. 
This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
This, only this, provokes the snarling 

muse. 
The sober trader at a tattered cloak 
Wakes from his dream, and labors 

for a joke ; 
With brisker air the silken courtiers 

gaze, [ways. 

And tiun the varied taunt a thousand 
Of all the griefs that harass the 

distressed, 
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; 
Fate never wounds more deep the 

generous heart, 
Than when a blockhead's insult 

points the dart. 
Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the 

poor, 
No pathless waste, or undiscovered 

shore ? 
No secret island in the boundless 

main ? 
No peaceful desert yet unclaimed by 

Spain ? 
Quick let us rise, the happy seats ex- 
plore. 
And bear Oppression's insolence no 

more. 
This mournful truth is everywhere 

confessed, 
Sloav rises avortii, by poverty 

depressed. 



Ben Jonson. 



TO CELT A. 



Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine : 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth 
rise 

Doth ask a drink divine : 
But might I of .love's nectar sup, 

I woidd not change for thine. 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And senfst it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I 
swear, 

Not of itself but thee ! 



M^' 



QuEEX and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair, 
State in wonted manner keep: 

Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess, excellently bright! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose : 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight. 
Goddess, excellently bright! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 

And thy crystal shining <iuiver: 

Give unto the flying hart 
Space to breathe, how short soever; 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 

Goddess, excellently bright! 



THE SWEET NEGLECT. 

Still to be neat, still to he drest, 

As you were going to a feast : 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed: 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not 

found. 
All is not sweet, all is not soimd. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me. 



Than all the adulteries of art, 
That strike mine eyes, but not my 
heart. 



EPITAPH. 

Would' 8T thou hear what man can 

say 
In a little ? — reader, stay ! 
Underneath this stone doth lie 
As nuxch beauty as could die, — 
Which in life did harbor give 
To more virtue than doth live. 
If at all she had a fault. 
Leave it buried in this vault. 
One name was Elizabeth. — 
The other, let it sleep with death. 
Fitter where it died to tell, 
Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 



GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make man better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three Inm- 

dred year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and 
sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night, 
It was tlie plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions, we just beauties 

see; 
And in short measures, life may per- 
fect be. 



John Keats. 

THE TERROR OF DEATH. 



When I have fears that I may cease 
to be 

Before my pen has gleaned my teem- 
ing brain. 

Before high-piled books, in charact- 
ery" 

Hold like rich garners the full- 
ripened grain; 



When I behold, upon the night's 
starred face. 

Huge, cloudy symbols of a liigh ro- 
mance. 

And think that I may never live to 
trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand 
of Chance; 



And when I feel, fair creature of an 

hour ! 
That I shall never look upon thee 

more, 
Never have relish in the fairy power 
Of unreflecting love, — then on the 

shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and 

think 
Till love and fame to nothingness 

do sink. 



SOy^^fET COMPOSED ON" LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

Bright Star! would I were steadfast 
as thou art, — 

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the 
night, 

And watching, with eternal lids 
apart. 

Like nature's patient sleepless ere- 
mite. 

The moving waters at their priestlike 
task 

Of pure ablution, round earth's hu- 
man shores, 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the 
moors : — 

Xo, — yet still steadfast, still un- 
changeable, 

Pillowed upon my fair love's ripen- 
ing breast. 

To feel t^r ever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken 
breath. 

And so live ever, — or else swoon to 
death. 



ODE ON THE POETS. 

Bards of passion and of mirth 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wonder- 

ous 
And the parle of voices thunderous ; 



With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large bluebells tented. 
Where the daistes are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you 
Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumbered, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what 

maim : — 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though lied far away. 

Bards of passion and of mirth 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Uouble-lived in regions new ! 



FANCY. 



Ever let the fancy roam; 
Pleasure never is at home; 
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
Then let winged fancy wander 
Through thelhought still spread be- 
yond her: 
Open wide the mind's cage-door,— 
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet fancy ! let her loose ! 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
And the enjoying of the spring 
Fades as does its blossoming. 
Autunni's red-lipped fruitage too. 
Blushing through the mist and dew, 



312 



KEATS. 



Cloys with tasting. What do then ? 
.Sit tliee by the ingle, when 
The sear faggot blazes bright, 
Spirit of a winter's night; 
When the soundless earth is muffled, 
And the caked snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
When the Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banisli Even from her sky. 
Sit thee there, and send abroad. 
With a mind self-overawed, [her. 
Fancy, high-comnussioned : — send 
She has vassals to attend her; 
She will bring, in spite of frost, 
Beauties that the earth hath lost; 
She will bring thee, all together. 
All delights of summer Meather; 
All the buds and bells of May, 
From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
All the heaped autumn's wealth; 
With a still, mysterious stealth ; 
She will mix these pleasures up 
Like three tit wines in a cuj). 
And thou shalt quaff it, — thou shalt 

hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear, — 
Kustle of tlie reape.l corn; 
Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 
And, in the same moment, — hark! 
'Tis tlie early April lark, — ^ 
Or the rooks, with busy caw. 
Foraging for sticks and str'aw. 
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
Tlie daisy and the marigold; 
Wliite-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath 

biu'st ; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 
And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearled witli the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep; 
And the snake, all Minter-thin, 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree. 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quii't- on her mossy nest; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 
Acorns ri))e down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 



[From Enr]>/mion.] 
liEA UTY'S IMMOnTALITY. 

A THING of beauty is a joy forever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will 

keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 

quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we 

wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the 

earth. 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman 

dearth 
pf noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-dark- 

ened ways 
Made for our searching: yes, in spite 

of all. 
Some shape of beauty moves away 

the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, 

the moon. 
Trees old and young, sprouting a 

shady boon (dils 

For simple sheep; and such are daffo- 
With the green world they live in; 

and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert 

make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest 

brake. 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk- 
rose blooms : 
And such too is the grandeur of the 

dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty 

dead ; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or 

read : 
An endless fountain of innnortal 

drink. 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's 

brink. 



ODE TO A XIGHTIXGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numb- 
ness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I 
had drunk. 



KEATS. 



313 



Or emptied some dull opiate to the 
drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards 
had sunk: 
'Tis not througli envy of thy happy 
lot, 
But heing too happy in tliy happi- 
ness. — 
That tliou, Uglit-winged Dryad of 
tlie trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and sliadows num- 
berless, 
Singest of s«nnner in full-throated 
ease. 

Oh, for a draught of vintage, that 
hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep- 
delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country- 
green. 
Dance, and Provencal song, and 
sunburnt mirth ! 
Oh, for a beaker full of the warm 
South ! 
Full of the true, the blushful Hip- 

pocrene. 
"With beaded bubbles winking at 
the biini, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the 
world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the 
forest dim! 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite 
forget 
What fhou among the leaves hast 
never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each 
other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last 
gray hairs. 
Where youth grows pale, and spec- 
tre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of 
sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lus- 
trous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond 
to-morrow. 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
Not charioted by Bacchus and his 
pards, 
But on the viewless wings of poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes 
and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the 
night. 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on 
her throne, [fays; 

Clustered around by all her starry 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is M'ith the 
breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and 
winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my 
feet. 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon 
the boughs. 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess 
each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month 
endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit- 
tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral 

eglantine; 
Fast-fading violets covered up in 
leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewj 
wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on 
summer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and for many a 
time 
I have been half in love with ease- 
ful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a 
mused rliyme, 
To take into the air my quiet 
breath; [die. 

Now more than ever seems it rich to 
To cease upon the midnight with 

no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy 
soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and 1 have 
ears in vain. — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



314 



KEBLE. 



Tliou wast not born for death, im- 
mortal bird ! 
No himgry generations tread thee 
down ; 
The voice 1 liear tliis passing niglit 
was lieai'd 
In ancient days by emperor and 
clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that 
found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, 

when sick for home 
She stood in tears amid the alien 
corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening 
on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faeiy lands for- 
lorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my 
sole self ! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so 
well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving 
elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem 
fades 
Past the near meadows, over the 

still stream. 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis 
buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 



Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music : — do I wake or 
sleep ? 



OJST READING CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

Much have I travelled in the realms 
of gold, 
xind many goodly states and king- 
doms seen ; 
Round many western islands have 
I been « 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been 
told 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as 

his demesne : 
Yet did I never breathe its pure 
serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 

and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the 
skies 
When a new planet swims into his 
ken; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle 
eyes 
He stared at the Pacific, — and all 
his men 
Looked at each other with a wild 
surmise, — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



John Keble. 



WHERE IS THY FAVORED HAUNT? 



Where is thy favored haunt, eter- 
nal voice. 
The region of thy choice. 
Where undisturbed by sin and earth, 
the soul 
Owns thy entire control ? 
'Tis on the mountain's siunmit dark 
and high, 
When storms are hurrying by : 
'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of 
the earth. 
Where torrents have their birth. 



Xo sounds of worldly toil ascending 
there, 
Mar the full burst of prayer; 
Lone Natiu'e feels that she may free- 
ly breathe. 
And round us and beneath 
Are heard her sacred tones: the fit- 
fid sweep 
Of Winds across the steep, 
Through withered bents — romantic 
note and clear. 
Meet for a hermit's ear, — 



KEBLE. 



315 



The wheeling kite's wild solitary 
cry, 
And scarcely heard so liigh, 
The dashing waters when the air is 
still. 
From many a torrent rill 
That winds nnseen beneath the 
shaggy fell. 
Tracked by the blue mist well : 
Such sounds as make deep silence in 
the heart, 
For Thought to do her part. 

'Tis then we hear the voice of God 
within. 
Pleading with care and sin ; 
" Child of my love! how have 1 wear- 
ied thee ? 
Why wilt thou err from me ? 
Have I not brought thee from the 
house of slaves ; 
Parted the drowning waves, 
And sent my saints before thee in 
the way, 
Lest thou should' St faint or 
stray > 

" What was the promise made to thee 
alone ? 
Art thou the excepted one ? 
An heir of glory without grief or 
pain '? 
O vision false and vain! 
There lies thy cross; beneath it 
meekly bow, 
It fits thy stature now: 
Who scornful pass it with averted 
eye, 
'Twill crush them by and by. 

" Raise thy repining eyes, and take 
true measure 
Of thine eternal treasure ; 
The father of tliy Lord can grudge 
thee nought, 
The world for thee was bought, 
And as this landscape broad — earth, 
sea. and sky, — 
All centres in thine eye. 
So all (4od does if rightly rnider- 
stood. 
Shall work thy final good." 



WHY SHOULD WE FAINT AND 
FEAH TO LIVE ALONE? 

Why should we faint anil fear to 
live alone, 
Since all alone, so heaven has 
willed, we die ? 
Xot even the tenderest heart, and 
next our own. 
Knows half the reasons why we 
smile and sigh. 

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or 
woe 
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range 
apart. 
Our eyes see all around in gloom or 
glow — 
Hues of their own, fresh borrowed 
from the heart. 

And well it is for us our God should 
feel 
Alone our secret throbbings : so om- 
prayer 
May readier spring to heaven, nor 
spend its zeal 
On cloud-born idols of this lower 
air. 

For if one heart in perfect sympathy 
Beat with another, answering love 
for love. 
Weak mortals all entranced on earth 
would lie ; 
Xor listen for those purer strains 
above. 

Or what if heaven for once its search- 
ing light [all 
Lent to some partial eye. disclosing 
The rude bad thoughts, that in our 
bosom's night 
Wander at large, nor heed Love's 
gentle thrall ? 

Who would not shun the dreary un- 
couth place ? 
As if, fond leaning where her in- 
fant slept, 
A mother's arm a serpent should em- 
brace : 
So miglit we friendless live, and 
die unwept. 



316 



KEBLE. 



Then keep the softening veil in mer- 
cy drawn, 
Thou who canst love us, though 
thou read us true. 
As on the bosom of the aerial lawn 
Melts in dim haze each coarse un- 
gentle hue. 

So too may soothing hope thy leave 
enjoy 
Sweet visions of long severed 
hearts to frame : 
Though absence may impair, or cares 
annoy, 
Some constant mind may draw us 
still the same. 



SINCE ALL THAT IS NOT HEAVEN 
MUST FADE. 

Since all that is not heaven must 

fade, 
Liglit be the hand of ruin laid 

Upon the home I love: 
With lulling spell let soft decay 
Steal on, and spare the giant sway, 

The crash of tower aiid grove. 

Far opening down some woodland 

deep 
In their own quiet dale should sleep 

The relics dear to thought. 
And wild-flower wreaths from side to 

side 
Their waving tracery hang, to hide 
What ruthless time has wrought. 

Such are the visions green and 

sweet 
That o'er the wistful fancy fleet 

In Asia's sea-like plain. 
Where slowly, round his isles of 

sand, 
Euphrates throiTgh the lonely land 
Winds toward the pearly main. 

Slumber is there, but not of rest; 
There her forlorn and weary nest 

The famished liawk has found. 
The wild dog howls at fall of night, 
The serpent's rustling coils affright 

The traveller on his round. I 



What shapeless form, half lost on 

high. 
Half seen against the evening sky, 

Seems like a ghost to glitle. 
And watch from Babel's crumbling 

heap. 
Where in her shadow, fast asleep, 
Lies fallen imperial pride ? 

With half-closed eye a lion there 
Is basking in his noontide lair 

Or prowls in twilight gloom. 
The golden city's king he seems. 
Such as in old prophetic dreams 

Sprang from rough ocean's womb. 

But where are now his eagle wings, 
That sheltered erst a thoiisand kings, 

Hiding the glorious sky 
From half the nations, till they own 
No holier name, no mightier throne ? 

That vision is gone by. 

Quenched is the golden statue's ray. 
The breath of heaven has blown 
away 
What toiling earth had piled, 
Scattering wise heart and crafty 

hand. 
As breezes strew on ocean's sand. 
The fabrics of a child. 

Divided thence through every age 
Thy rebels, Ijord, their warfare wage, 

And hoarse and jarring all 
Mount up their heaven-assailing cries 
To thy bright watchman in the skies 

From Babel's shattered wall. 

Thrice only since, with blended 

might 
The nations on that haughty height 

Have met to scale the heaven : 
Thrice only might a seraph's look 
A moment's shade of sadness brook; 

Such power to guilt was given. 

Now the fierce Bear and Leopard 

keen 
Are perished as they ne'er had been, 

Oblivion is their home: 
Ambition's lioldest dream and last 
Must melt before the clarion blast 

That soimds the dirge of Home. 



KEMBLE. 



317 



Heroes and kings, obey the charm, 
Withdraw the proud high-reaching 
arm ; 
There is an oath on high, 
That ne'er on brow of mortal birtli 
Shall blend again the crowns ot 
earth. 
Nor in according cry 

Her many voices mingling own 
One tyrant lord, one idol throne: 
But to His triumph soon 



He shall descend who rules above, 

And the pure language of his love 

All tongues of men shall tune. 

Nor let ambition heartless mourn; 
When Babel's very ruins burn. 

Her high desires may breathe ; — 
O'ercome thyself, and thou may st 

share 
With Christ his Father's throne, and 
wear 
The world's imperial wreath. 



Frances Anne Kemble. 

ABSENCE. 



What shall I do with all the days 
and hours 
That nuist be counted ere I see thy 
face '? , 1 ^ 

How shall I charm the interval that 
lowers 
Between this time and that sweet 
time of grace '? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary 

SGllSC — 

Weary with longing ? Shall I flee 
away 
Into past days, and with some fond 
pretence 
Cheat mvself to forget the present 
day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the 

sin 

Of casting from me God's great gift 

of time •? [within 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked 

Leave and forget life's purposes 

sublime ? 

Oh, how. or by what means, may I 
contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee 
back more near '? 
How may I teach my drooping hopes 

to live , ^, 

Until that blessed time, and thou 
art here ? 



I'll tell tliee; for thy sake I will lay 
hold ^ ^ 

Of all good aims, and consecrate to 
thee. 
In worthy deeds, each moment that 
is told 
While thou, beloved one! art tar 
from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts 
to try . , , 

All heavenward flights, all high and 
holy strains; 
For thy dear sake I will walk pa- 
tiently 
Through these long hours, nor call 
their minutes pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence 
make 
A noble task-time; and will therein 
strive 
To follow excellence, and to o ertake 
More good than I have won since 
yet I hve. 

So may this doomed time build up in 
me , 

A thousand graces, which shall 
thus be thine; 

So may my love and longing hallowed 

And thy dear thought an influence 
divine. 



318 



KEY. 



FAITH. 



Better trust all and be deceived, 
And weep that trust and that deceiv- 
ing, 
Than doubt one heart, that if believed 
Had blessed one's life with true be- 
lievins;. 



Oh, in this mocking world too fast 
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our 

youth : 
Better be cheated to the last 
Than lose the blessed hope of 

truth. 



Francis Scott Key. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 



Oh! say, can you see by the dawn's 

early liglit 
What so proudly we hailed at the 

twilight's last gleaming, — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars 

through the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched, were 

so gallantly streaming! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs 

biu'sting in air 
Gave proof through the night that 

our flag was still there ; 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled ban- 
ner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the 

home of the brave ? 

On that shore, dimly seen through 

the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in 

dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er 

the towering steep. 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, 

now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the 

morning's first beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines on 

the stream; 
'Tis the star-spnngled banner; oh, 

long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the 

home of the brave ! 



And where is that band who so 

vaimtingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the bat- 
tle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave 

us no more "? 
Their blood has washed out their 

foul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and 

slave 
From the terror of flight, or the 

gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in tri- 

mnph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the 

home of the brave. 

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen 

shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the 

war's desolation! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the 

heaven-rescued land 
Praise the power that hath made and 

preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, for our cause 

it is just ; 
And this be om- motto, — " In God is 

our trust," — 
And the star-spangled banner in tri- 
umph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the 

home of the brave. 



KIMBALL. 



319 



Harriet McEwen Kimball. 



GOOD NEWS. 

A BEE flew in at my window, 
And circled around my head ; 

He came like a herald of summer- 
time. . 
And what do you think he saul .'' 

"As sure as the roses shall blos- 
som " — 
These are the words he said, — 
" As sure as the gardens shall laugh 
in pride, 
And the meadows blush clover-red ; 

"As sure as the golden robin 
Shall build her a swinging nest. 

And the capture(t sunbeam lie last- 
locked 
In the marigold's burning breast; 

" As sure as the water-lilies 
Shall float like a fairy fleet; 

As sure as the torrent shall leap the 
rocks 
With foamy, fantastic feet; 

" As sure as the bobolink's carol 

And the plaint of the whippoorwill 
Shall gladden the morning, and sad- 
den the night. 
And the crickets pipe loud antl 
shrill ; 

"So sure to the heart of the maiden 
Who hath loved and sorrowed long, 
Glad tidings shall bring the summer 
of joy 
AYith bursting of blossom and 
song!" 

A seer as well as a herald ! 

For while I sat weeping to-day, 
The tenderest, cheeriest letter came 

From Lionel far away. 

Good news! O little bee-prophet. 
Your words I will never forget! 

It may be foolish,— that dear, old 
sign,— 
But Lionel's true to me yet! 



TROUBLE TO LEND. 

To-MORiiow has trouble to lend 

To all who lack to-day; 
Go, borrow it, — borrow, griefless 
heart, 

And thou with thy peace wilt pay! 

To-morrow has trouble to lend,— 
An endless, endless store ; 

But I have as much as heart can 
hold,— 
Why should I borrow more ! 



HELIOTROPE. 

Sweetest, sweetest. Heliotrope! 
In the sunset's dying splendor. 
In the trance of twilight tender, 
Vll my senses I surrender. 

To the subtle spells that bind me: 
The dim air sA\imineth in my sight 
With visions vague of soft delight; 
Shadowy hands with endless chain 
Of purple-clustered bloom enwmd 

me ; — 
Garlands drenched in dreamy rain 
Of perfume passionate as sorrow 
And sad as Love's to-morrow! 
Bewildering music fills mine ears.— 
Faint laughter and commingling 
tears. — 
Flowing like delicious pain 
Through my drowsy brain. 
Bosomed in the blissful gloom.— 
Meseems I sink on slumberous 
slope 
Buried deep in puii^le bloom, 
f^^veetest. sweetest Heliotrope! 
Undulates the earth beneath me; 
Still the shadow-hands enwreatU 
me. 
And clouds of faces half detined. 
Lovely and fantastical, 
jSweet, — O sweet! — and strange 
withal. 
Sweeping like a desert wind 
Across my vision leave me blind! 
Subtler grows the spell and stronger; 



What enchantments weird possess 
me, — 

Now uplift me, now oppress me ? 
Do I feast, or do I hunger ? 

Is it bliss, or is it anguish ? 

Is it Auster's treaclierous breatli 
Kissing me witli honeyed deatli, 

Wliile I sicken, droop, and languisli ? 

Still I feel my blood's dull beat 
In my head and liands and feet; 

Struggling faintly with thy sweet- 
ness. 

Heliotrope! Heliotrope! 

Give nie back my strength's com- 
pleteness. 
Must I pine and languisli ever ! 
Wilt tliou loose my senses never! 
Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever, 

Oil, Lethean Heliotrope '? 

Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing, 
Sets the languid blood a-flowing ! 

I revive! — 
I escape thy spells alive ! 

Flower ! I love and do not love thee ! 
Hold my breath, but bend above tliee; 

Crusli thy buds, yet bid them ope ; 

Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope! 



DA Y-DREAMING. 

How better am I 
Than a butterfly ? 
Here, as tlie noiseless hours go by, 
Hour by hour, 
I cling to my fancy's lialf-blown 

flower : 
Over its sweetness I brood and brood, 
And scarcely stir, tliougli sounds in- 
trude 
That would trouble and fret another 
mood 
Less divine 
Than mine ! 



Who cares for the bees ? 
I will take my ease, 
IJream and dream as long as I 

please ; 
Hour by hour. 
With love-wings fanning my sweet, 

sweet flower! 
(iatlier your honey, and hoard your 

gold, 
Through spring and summer, and 

liive througli cold ! 
I will cling to my flower till it is 
mould, 
Breatlie one sigh 
And die! 



THE LAST APPEAL. 

The room is sweiit and garnished for 
thy sake; 
The table spread witli Love's most 
liberal cheer; 
The fire is blazing brightly on the 
liearth; 
Faith lingers yet to give tliee wel- 
come iiere. 
When,^\ ilt thou come ? 

Daily I weave tlie aiiy web of 
hope; 
Frail as the spider's, wiouglit witli 
beads of dew, — 
That, lilve Penelope's, each night un- 
done, 
Eacli morn in patience I begin 
anew. 
When wilt tliou come ? 

Not yet! To-morrow Faith Mill take 
her flight. 
The fire die out, the banquet dis- 
appear ; 
Forever will these fingers drop the 
web. 
And only desolation "wait thee here. 
Oh, come to-day! 



KINQSLEY 



321 



Charles Kingsley. 



A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to 
give you, 
No lark could pipe to skies so dull 
and gray ; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can 
leave you 
For every day : — 

Be good, my dear, and let who will, 
be clever; 
Uo noble things, not dream them, 
all day long; 
And so make life, death, and the vast 
forever 
One grand, sweet song. 



2'HE THREE FISHERS. 

TiiKEE fishers went sailing away to 
the "West — 
Away to the West as the sun went 
down ; 
Each thought on the woman who 
loved hini the best. 
And the children stood watching 
them out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep ; 
And there's little to earn and many 
to keep. 
Though the harbor-bar be moan- 
ing. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
tower 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun 
went down ; 
They looked at the squall, and they 
looked at the shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling 
up, ragged and brown. 
But men must work and women must 

weep. 
Though storms be sudden and waters 
deep. 
And the harbor-bar be moan- 



Three corpses lay out on the shining 
sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide 
went down. 
And the women are weeping and 
wringing their hands. 
For those who will never come back 
to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner 
to sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its 
moaning. 



DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 

The world goes up and the world 
goes down. 
And the sunshine follows the 
rain ; 
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's 
frown 
Can never come over again. 

Sweet wife; 
No, never come over again. 

For Avoman is warm, though man be 
cold. 
And the night will hallow the 
day; 
Till the heart which at eve was weary 
and old 
Can rise in the morning gay, 
Sweet wife ; 
To its work in the morning gay. 



SANDS OF DEE. 

" O Makv, go and call the cattle 
home, 
And call the cattle home 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee! " 
The western wind was wild and dank 
Avith foam 
And all alone went she. 



322 



KNOX. 



The western tide crept up along the 


Above the nets at sea ? 


sand, 


Was never salmon yet that shone so 


And o'er and o'er the sand, 


fair. 


And round and round the sand, 


Among the stakes on Dee." 


As far as eye could see. 




The rolling mist came down and hid 


They rowed her in across the rolling 


the land 


foam — 


And never home came she. 


The cruel, crawling foam. 




The cruel, hungry foam — 


" Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating 


To her grave beside the sea ; 


hair — 


But still the boatmen hear her call 


A tress of golden hair, 


the cattle home 


A drowned maiden's hair — 


Across the sands of Dee. 



William Knox. 

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD-: 



Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal 
be proud ? 

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- 
flying cloud, 

A flash of the lightning, a break of 
the wave. 

He passeth from life to his rest in the 
grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow 

shall fade, 
Be scattered around, and together be 

laid ; 
As the young and the old, the low 

and the high. 
Shall crumble to dust and together 

shall lie. 

The infant, a mother attended and 

loved, 
The mother, that infant's affection 

who proved, 
The father, that mother and infant 

who blest. 
Each, all, are away to that dwelling 

of rest. 

The maid, on whose brow, on whose 
cheek, in whose eye. 

Shone beauty and pleasure, — her tri- 
umphs are by ; 



And alike from the minds of the liv- 
ing erased 

Are the memories of mortals who 
loved her and praised. 

The head of the king, that the sceptre 

hath borne; 
The brow of the priest, that the mitre 

hath worn; 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of 

the brave, — 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of 

the grave. 

The peasant, whose lot was to sow 

and to reap; 
The herdsman, who climbed with his 

goats up the steep ; 
The beggar, who wandered in search 

of his bread, — 
Have faded away like the grass that 

we tread. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower 
or weed. 

That A^ithers away to let others suc- 
ceed ; 

So the multitude comes, even those 
we behold, 

To repeat e\'ery tale that has often 
been told. 



For we are the same that our fathers 

have been ; 
\Vc see the same sights that our 

fathers have seen: 
We drink tlie same stream, and we 

feel the same sun. 
And run the same course that our 

fatliers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinlcing our 
fatliers did think; 

From the death we are shrinking our 
fathers did shrink; 

To the life we are clinging our fa- 
thers did cling, 

But it speeds from us all like the bird 
on the wing. 

They loved, — but the story we can- 
not unfold ; 

They scorned, — but the heart of the 
haughty is cold ; 

They grieved, — but no wail from 
their slumbers will come; 

They joyed, — but the tongue of their 
gladness is dumb. 



They died, — ah! they died; — Ave, 
things that are now, 

That walk on the turf that lies over 
their brow. 

And make in their dwelling a tran- 
sient abode. 

Meet the things that they met on their 
pilgrimage road. 

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure 

and pain, 
Are mingled together in sunshine and 

rain : 
And the smile and the tear, and the 

song and the dirge, 
Still follow each other like surge 

upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the 

draught of a breath 
From the blossom of health to the 

paleness of death. 
From the gilded saloon to the bier 

and the shroud; 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal 

be proud ? 



Marie R. Lacoste. 



SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 



Into a ward of the whitewashed 
walls, 
AVhere the dead and dying lay, 
Womided by bayonets, shells, and 
balls, 
Somebody's darling was borne one 
day — 
Somebody's darling, so young, and so 
brave, 
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the 
grave. 
The lingering light of his boyhood's 
grace. 

Matted and damp are the cuils of 
gold, [brow; 

Kissing the snow of that fair young 
Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 



Back from his beautiful, blue-veined 
brow, 
Brush all the wandering waves of 
gold. 
Cross his hands on his bosom now. 
Somebody's darling is still and 
cold. 



Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 

Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates 
take. 
They were somebody's pride, you 
know : 
Somebody's liand has rested there. — 
Was it a mother's soft and white ? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 
Been baptized in those waves of 
light ? 



324 



LAIGHTON. 



God knows best — he was somebody's 

love; 
ISomebody's heart enshrined him 
til ere ; 
Somebody wafted his name above 
Night and morn on the wings of 
prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched 
away 
Looking so handsome, brave, and 
grand ; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead 
lay, 
Somebody chmg to his parting 
hand. 



Somebody's waiting and watching for 
him — 
Yearning to hold him again to the 
heart ; 
And there he lies with his bine eyes 
dim. 
And the smiling, childlike lips 
apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 
Pausing to drop on his grave a 
tear ; 
Carve on the wooden slab at his 
head, — 
"Somebody's darling slumbers 
here." 




Albert Laighton. 



UNDER THE LEAVES. 

Oft have I walked these woodland 
paths. 

Without the blest foreknowing 
That underneath the withered leaves 

The fairest buds were growing. 



To-day the south-wind sweeps away 
The types of autiunn's splendor. 

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers. 
Spring's children, pure and tender. 



O prophet-flowers! — with lips of 
bloom. 

Outvying in your beauty 
The pearly tints of ocean shells, — 

Ye teach me faith and duty ! 



" Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to 

say, 

"With love's divine foreknowing, 

'I'hat Avhere man sees but withered 

leaves, 

(Jod sees sweet flowers growing." 



nr THE DEAD. 

Savekt winter roses, stainless as the 

snow. 
As was thy life, O tender heart and 

true ! 
A cross of lilies that our tears bedew, 
A garland of the fairest flowers that 

grow. 
And filled with fragrance as the 

thought of thee. 
We lay, with loving hand, upon thy 

breast. 
Wrapt in the calm of Death's great 

mystery ; 
Ours still to feel the pairi, the unlan- 

guaged woe. 
The bitter sense of loss, the vague 

unrest. 
And wear unseen the cypress-leaf 

and rue. 
Thinking, the while, of lovelier flow- 
ers that blow 
In everlasting gardens of the blest. 
That wither not like these, and never 

shed 
Their rare and heavenly odors for the 

dead. 



LAMB. 



825 



Charles Lamb. 



OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have liad 
companions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joy- 
ful school-days; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar 
faces. 

1 have been laughing, I have been 

carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with ray 

bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar 

faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among 

women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must 

not see her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar 

faces. 

1 have a friend, a kinder friend has 
no man ; 

Like an ingrate, I left my friend ab- 
ruptly — 

Left him to muse on the old familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like I paced roimd the haunts 

of my childhood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound 

to traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar 

faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than 
a brother. 

Why wert not thou born in my fa- 
ther's dwelling? 

So might we talk of the old familiar 
faces — 

How some they have died, and some 

they have left me. 
And some are taken from me; all are 

departed. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar 

faces ! 



HESTER. 

When maidens such as Hester die. 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
AVitli vain endeavor. 

A month or more has she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To tliink upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flushed her spirit: 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call ; — if 't was not pride. 
It was a joy to that allied. 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
Which doth the liuman feelings cool ; 
But slie was trained in nature's 
school, 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot 
blind, — 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore ! 
Shall we not meet as heretofore 
Some summer morning; 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a I)liss upon the day, — 
A bliss that would not go away, — 
A sweet forewarning ? 



THE HOUSEKEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with forecast of re- 
pose, 

Carries his house with him where'er 
he goes ; 



326 



LANDON. 



Peeps out, — and if there comes a 
shower of rain, 

Retreats to his small domicile 
again. 

Touch but a tip of liim, a horn, — 'tis 
well, — 

He curls uji in his sanctuary shell. 

He's his own landlord, his own ten- 
ant; stay 

Long as he will, he dreads no quar- 
ter-day. 



Himself he boards and lodges; both 
invites 

And feasts himself ; sleeps with him- 
self o' nights. 

He spares the upholsterer trouble to 
jjrocure [ture, 

Chattels; himself is his own furni- 

And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he 
roam, — 

Knock when you will, — he's sure to 
be at home. 



L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 



SUCCESS ALONE SEEX. 

Few know of life's beginnings — 

men behold 
The goal achieved ; — the warrior, 

when his sword 
Flashes red triumph in the noonday 

sun ; 
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the 

palm ; 
The statesman, when the crowd pro- 
claim his voice. 
And mould opinion on his gifted 

tongue : 
They count not life's first steps, and 

never think 
Upon the many miserable hours 
When hope deferred was sickness to 

the heart. 
They reckon not the battle and the 

march. 
The long privations of a wasted 

youth ; 
They never see the banner till un- 
furled. 
What are to them the solitary nights 
Passed pale and anxiously by the 

sickly lamp, 
Till the young poet wins the world at 

last 
To listen to the music long his own ? 
The crowd attend the statesman's 

fiei'y mind 
That makes their destiny ; but they 

do not trace 
Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 



Hard are life's early steps; and, but 

that youth 
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in 

hope. 
Men would behold its threshold, and 

despair. 



THE LITTLE SHROUD. 



She had lost many children — now 
The last of them was gone : 

And day and night she sat and wept 
Beside the funeral stone. 

One midnight, while her constant 
tears 

Were falling with the dew. 
She heard a v-oice, and lo ! her child 

Stood by her, weeping too ! 

His shroud was damp, his face was 
white; 
He said — "I cannot sleep. 
Your tears have made my shroud so 
wet ; 
O mother, do not weep! "' 

Oh, love is strong! — the mother's 
heart 
Was filled wilh tender fears; 
Oh, love is strong! — and for her 
child 
Her grief restrained its tears. 



LANDOR. 



3-27 



One eve a light shone round her bed, 
And there she saw hhn stand — 

Her infant in liis little shroud, 
A taper in his hand. 

•• Lol mother, see my shroud is dry. 
And I can sleep once more!'' 

And beautiful the parting smile 
The little infant wore. 

The mother went her household 
ways — 

Again she knelt in prayer, 
And" only asked of heaven its aid 

Her heavy lot to bear. 



THE POET. 

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all 
he sings. 
Every passion he paints his own 
bosom has known ; 
No note of wild music is swept from 
the strings. 
But first his own feelings have 
echoed the tone. 

Then say not his love is a fugitive 
fire. 
That the heart can be ice Avhile the 
lip is of flame : 
Oh, say not that truth does not dwell 
with the lyre : 
For the pulse of the heart and the 
harp are the same. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT AT POMPEII. 

I SEE the ancient master pale and 

worn, 
Though on him shines the lovely 

southern heaven, 
And Naples greets him with festivity. 



The dying by the dead : for his great 
sake 

They have laid bare the city of the 
lost: 

His own creations fill the silent 
streets ; 

The Roman pavement rings with 
golden spurs. 

The Highland plaid shades dark Ital- 
ian eyes, 

x\nd the young king himself is 
Ivanhoe. 



But there the old man sits, — majes- 
tic, wan. 

Himself a mighty vision of the past; 

The glorious mind has bowed beneath 
its toil; 

He does not hear his name on foreign 
lips 

That thank him for a thousand happy 
hours : 

He does not see the glittering groups 
that press 

In wonder and in homage to his side ; 

Death is beside his triumph. 



Walter Savage Landor. 



RUBIES. 

Often I have heard it said 
That her lips are ruby red. 
Little heed I what they say, 
I have seen as red as they. 
Ere she smiled on other men, 
Real rubies were they then. 

Wlien she kissed me once in play. 
Rubies were less bright than they, 



And less bright were those which 

shone 
In the palace of the sun. 
Will they be as bright again? 
Not if kissed by other men. 



IN XO HASTE. 

Nay, thank me not again for those 
Camellias, that untimely rose; 
But if, whence you might please the 
more, 



828 



LANIER. 



And win the few unwon before, 
I sought the flowers you love to wear, 
O'er joyed to see them in your liair, 
Upon my grave. I pray you set 
One primrose or one violet. 
. . . Stay ... 1 can wait a little yet. 



ROSE AYLMER. 

Air, what avails the sceptred race ? 

Ah, what the form divine ? 
What every virtue, every grace ? 

Hose Ayluier, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful 
eyes 

May weep but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



DEATH OF THE DAY. 

My pictures blacken in their frames 

As night comes on, 
And youthful maids and wrinkled 
dames 

Are now all one. 



Death of the Day ! a sterner Death 

Did worse before ; 
The fairest form, the sweetest breath, 

Away he bore. 



/ WILL NOT LOVE. 

I WILL not love ! These sounds 
have often 

Burst from a troubled breast ; 
Rarely from one no sighs could soften, 

Rarely from one at rest. 



A REQUEST. 

The place where soon I think to lie, 
In its old creviced nook hard by, 

Rears many a weed : 
If parties bring you there, will you 
Drop slyly in a grain or two 

Of wallflower seed ? 

I shall not see it, and (too sure!) 
I shall not ever hear that your 

Light step was there ; 
But the rich odor some fine day 
Will, what I cannot do, repay 
That little care. 



Sidney Lanier. 

EVENING SONG. 



Look off, dear Love, across the sal- 
low sands. 
And mark yon meeting of the sun 
and sea ; 
How long they kiss in sight of all the 
lands ! 
Ah, longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts 
the sun, 
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy 
wine. 
And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis 
done ! 
Love, lay thy hand in mine. 



Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort 
heaven's heart; 
fHimmer, ye waves, round else un- 
lighted sands; 
O Night, divorce our sun and moon 
apart, — 
Never our lips, our hands. 



FROM THE FLATS. 

What heartache, — ne'er a hill! 
Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill. 
The drear sand-levels drain my spirit 

low, 
With one i^oor word they tell me all 

they know; 



S^ 



LARCOM. 



329 



Whereat their stupid tongues, to 

tease my pain, 
Do draw it o'er again and o'er again. 
They liurt my heart with griefs I 

cannot name: 
Always the same, the same. 

Nature hath no surprise. 

No ambuscade of beauty, 'gainst 
mine eyes 

From brake, or lurking dell, or deep 
defile ; 

No humors, frolic forms, — this mile, 
that mile ; 

No rich reserves or happy-valley 
hopes 

Beyond the bends of roads, the dis- 
tant slopes. 

Her fancy fails, her wild is all run 
tame: 
Ever the same, the same. 

Oh ! might I through these tears 

But glimpse some hill my Georgia 
high uprears, 

Where white the quartz, and pink 
the pebbles shine, 

The hickory heavenward strives, the 
muscadine 

Swings o'er the sloi^e; the oak's far- 
falling shade 

Darkens the dog- wood in the bottom 
glade, 



And down the hollow from a ferny 
nook 
Bright leaps a living brook! 



BETRAYAL. 

The sun has kissed the violet sea. 
And turned the violet to a rose. 

O Sea ! wouldst thou not better be 
Mere violet still ? Who knows ? 

who knows ? 
Well hides the violet in the wood: 
The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood. 
And winter's ill is violet's good; 
But the bold glory of the rose. 
It quickly conies and quickly goes; 
Red petals whirling in white snows, 
Ah me ! 

The sun has burnt the rose-red sea : 
The rose is turned to ashes gray. 

O Sea ! O Sea ! mightst thou but be 
The violet thou hast been to-day I 
The sun is brave, the sun is briglit. 
The sun is lord of love and light; 
But after him it cometh night. 
O anguish of the lonesome dark ! 
Once a girl's body, stiff and stark. 
Was laid in a tomb without a marl^. 
Ah me ! 



Lucy Largom. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window, binding shoes, 

Faded, wrinkled. 
Sitting, stitching, in a nioiu'nful 
muse. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree : 
Spring and winter, 
Hannah's at the window, binding 
shoes. 

Not a neighbor. 
Passing nod or answer will refuse. 



To her whisper, 
" Is there from the fishers any 
news ?" 
Oh, her heart's adrift, with one 
(Jn an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning. 
Hannah's at the window, binding 
shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos: 

Hale and clever. 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow. 
And the waves are laughing so! 



330 



LARCOM. 



For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her 
shoes. 

May is passing: 
Mid tlie apple-boughs a pigeon coos, 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild southwester miscliief 
brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped: 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding 
shoes. 

'Tis Xovember, 
Now no tear her wasted cheek be- 
dews. 
From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose. 
Whispering hoarsely, " Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of 
Ben?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the windoAV, binding 
shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she 
views 
Twenty seasons, — 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window, binding 
shoes. 



[From Hints.] 
THE CURTAIN OF THE DARK. 

The cmtain of the dark 
Is piei'ced by many a rent : 

Out of the star-wells, spark on spark 
Trickles through night's torn tent. 

Grief is a tattered tent 

Wherethrough God's light doth 
shine. 
Who glances up, at every rent 

Shall catch a ray divine. 



UNWEDDED. 

Behold her there in the evening 
sun. 
That kindles the Indian summer 
trees 
To a separate burning bush, one by 
one. 
Wherein the Glory Divine she sees ! 

Mate and nestlings she never had: 
Kith and kindred have passed 
away ; 
Yet the sunset is ]iot more gently 
glad, 
That follows her shadow, and fain 
would stay. 

For out of her life goes a breath of 
bliss. 
And a sunlike charm from her 
cheerful eye. 
That the cloud and tlie loitering 
l)reeze would miss; 
A balm that refreshes the passer- 

by. 

"Did she choose it, tills single life?" 
Gossip, she salth not, and who can 
tell ? 
But many a mother, and many a 
wife, 
Draws a lot more lonely, we all 
know well. 

Doubtless she had her romantic 
dream. 
Like other maidens, in May-time 
sweet. 
That flushes the air with a lingering 
gleam. 
And goldens the grass beneath her 
feet: — 

A dream unmoulded to visible form, 
That keeps the world I'osy with 
mists of youth. 
And holds her in loyalty close and 
warm. 
To her fine ideal of manly truth. 

" But is she happy, a woman alone ? " 
Gossip, alone in this crowded 
earth. 



LARCOM. 



331 



With a voice to quiet its hourly 
moan, 
And a smile to heighten its rarer 
mirth I 

There are ends more worthy than 
happiness : 
Who seeks it, is digging joy's 
grave, we know. 
The blessed are they who but live to 
bless; 
She found out that mystery, long 
ago. 

To her motherly, sheltering atmos- 
l^here, 
The children hasten from icy 
homes : 
The outcast is welcome to share her 
cheer; 
And the saint with a fervent beni- 
son comes. 

For the heart of woman is large as 
man's; 
God gave her his orphaned world 
to hold, 
And whispered through her His 
deeper plans 
To save it alive from the outer 
cold. 

And here is a woman who under- 
stood 
Herself, her work, and God's will 
with her. 
To gather and scatter His sheaves of 
good. 
And was meekly thankful, though 
men demur. 

Would she have walked more nobly, 
think. 
With a man beside her, to point 
the way, 
Hand joining liand in the marriage- 
link ? 
Possibly, Yes; it is likelier, Nay. 

For all men have not wisdom and 
might: 
Love's eyes are tender, and blur 
the map; 



And a wife will follow by faith, not 
sight, 
In the chosen footprint, at any 
hap. 

In the comfort of home who is glad- 
der than she ? 
Yet, stirred by no murnuu- of 
" might have been," 
Her heart as a carolling bird soars 
free, 
With tlie song of each nest she has 
glanced within. 

Having the whole, she covets no 
part : 
Hers is the bliss of all blessed 
things. 
The tears that unto her eyelids 
start, 
Are those which a generous pity 
brings ; 

Or the sympathy of heroic faith 
AVith a holy purpose, achieved or 
lost. 
To stifle the truth is to stop her 
breath. 
For she rates a lie at its deadly 
cost. 

Her friends are good women and 
faithful men, 
AVho seek for the true, and uphold 
the right ; 
And who shall proclaim her the 
weaker, when 
Her very presence puts sin to flight? 

"And dreads she never the coming 
years '? " 
Gossip, what are the yeai's to 
her ? 
All winds are fair, and the harbor 
nears. 
And every breeze a delight will 
stir. 

Transfigured under the sunset trees. 
That wreathe her Avith shadowy 
gold anil red. 
She looks away to the purple seas. 
Whereon her shallop will soon be 
sped. 






332 



LARCOM: 



She reads the hereafter by the here: 
A beautiful Now, and a better To 
Be: 
In Hfe is all sweetness, in death no 
fear, — 
You waste your pity on such as 
she. 



HAND IX HAND WITH ANGELS. 

Hand in hand with angels, 

Through the world we go ; 
Brighter eyes are on us 

Than we blind ones know ; 
Tenderer voices cheer us 

Than we deaf will own ; 
Never, walking heavenward. 

Can we walk alone. 

Hand in hand with angels, 

In the busy street, 
By the winter hearth-fires, — 

Everywhere, — we meet. 
Though unfledged and songless. 

Birds of Paradise; 
Heaven looks at us daily 

Out of human eyes. 

Hand in hand with angels ; 

Oft in menial guise; 
By the same strait pathway 

Prince and beggar rise. 
If we drop the fingers, 

Toil-imbrowned and worn. 
Then one link with heaven 

From our life is torn. 

Hand in hand with angels: 

Some are fallen, — alas! 
Soiled wings trail pollution 

Over all "they pass. 
Lift them into sunshine! 

Bid them seek the sky ! 
Weaker is your soaring. 

When they cease to fly. 

Hand in hand with angels; 

Some are out of sight, 
Leading us, imknowing. 

Into paths of light. 
Some dear hands are loosened 

From our earthly clasp, 
Soul in soul to hold us 

With a firmer grasp. 



Hand in hand with angels, — 

'Tis a twisted chain. 
Winding heavenward, earthward, 

Linking joy and pain. 
There's a mournful jarring, 

'J'here's a clank of doubt, 
If a heart grows heavy. 

Or a hand's left out. 

Hand in hand with angels 

AValking every day ; — 
How the chain may lengthen. 

None of us can say. 
But we know it reaches 

From earth's lowliest one, 
To the shining seraph. 

Throned beyond the sun. 

Hand in hand with angels! 

Blessed so to be! 
Helped are all the helpers; 

Giving light, they see. 
He who aids another 

Strengthens more than one ; 
Sinking earth he grapples 

To tiie Great White Throne. 



A SrniP OF BLUE. 

I DO not own an inch of land. 

But all 1 see is mine. — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are. 

They bring me tithes divine, — 
Wild scents and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free: 
And more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue inunensity, — 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 

Great fleets and argosies ; 
I have a share in every ship 

Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 

Above the apple-trees. 
I freight them with my untold 
dreams. 



!»: 



LARCOM. 



333 



Each bears my own picked crew ; 
And nobler cargoes wait for thon 

Tliau ever India knew, — 
My ships lliat sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living 
shapes, — 

The people of the sky, — 
Guests in white raiment coming 
down 

From heaven, which is close by: 
I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 
So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom ! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaimed from gloom. 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 

With nothing else in sight ; 
Its east and west, its north and 
south. 

Spread out from morn to night: 
We miss the warm, caressing shore, 

Its brooding shade and light. 
A part is greater than the whole ; 

By hints are mysteries told ; 
The fringes of eternity. — 

God's sweeping garment-fold. 
In that bright shred of glimmering 
sea, 

I reach out for, and hold. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 

Float in upon the mist; 
The waves are broken precious 
stones, — 

Sapphire and amethyst. 
Washed from celestial basement walls 

By suns unsetting kissed. 



Out through the utmost gates of 
space. 

Past where the gay stars drift. 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on, a vessel swift; 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 

Here sit I, as a little child: 

The threshold of God's door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor, 
The blinding glory of the dome 

I bow myliead before. 
The universe, O God, is home. 

In height or depth, to me; 
Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be ; 
Glad, when is opened to my need 

Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 



[From Hintg.'] 
HEAVES \EAJ! THE VinTUOCS. 

They whose hearts are whole and 
strong. 

Loving holiness, 
Living clean from soil of wrong. 

Wearing truth's white dress, — 
They unto no far-off height 

Wearily need climb; 
Heaven to them is close in sight 

From these shores of time. 

Only the anointed eye 

Sees in common things, — 
Gleams dropped daily from the sky; 

Heavenly blossomings. 
To the hearts where light has birth 

Nothing can be drear; 
Budding through the bloom of earth, 

Heaven is always near. 



384 



LATH It OP. 



George Parsons Lathrop. 



TO MV SOX. 

Do you remember, my sweet, absent 

son, 
How in the soft June days forever 

done 
You loved the heavens so warm and 

clear and high ; 
And when I lifted you, soft came 

your cry — 
"Put me 'way up — 'way up in the 

blue sky '? ' ' 

I laughed and said I could not ; set 

you down, 
Your gray eyes Avonder-filled beneath 

that crown 
Of bright hair gladdening me as you 

raced by. 
Another P'ather now, more strong 

than I, 
Uas borne you voiceless to your dear 

blue sky. 



NEW WORLDS. 

With my beloved I lingered late one 
night. 
At last the hour when I nuist leave 

her came : 
But, as I turned, a fear I could not 
name 
Possessed me that the long sweet 

evening might 
Prelude some sudden storm, whereby 
delight 
8hould perisli. Wliat if Death, ere 

dawn, should claim 
One of us ? What, though living, 
not the same 
Each sliould appear to each in morn- 
ing light ? 

Changed did I find her, truly, the 

next day: 
Ne'er could I see her as of old 

again. 
That strange mood seemed to draw a 

cloud away. 



And let her Ijeauty pour through 

every vein 
Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus 

the lover 
With each new morn a new world 

may discover. 



THE LILY-POND. 

Some fairy spirit with his wand, 
I think, has hovered o'er the dell, 

And spread this film upon the pond. 
And touclied it with tliis drowsy 
spell, 

For here the musing soul is merged 

In moods no other scene can bring, 
And sweeter seems the air when 
scourged 
With wandering wild-bees' mur- 
muring. 

One ripple streaks the little lake. 
Sharp purple-blue; the birches, 
thin 
And silvery, crowd the edge, yet 
break 
To let a straying sunbeam in. 

How came we through the yielding 
wood. 
That day, to this sweet-rustling 
shore ? 
Oh, there together while we stood, 
A butterfly was wafted o'er. 

In sleepy light; and even now 
His glimmering beauty doth return 

Upon me when the soft winds blow. 
And lilies toward the sunlight 
yearn. 

The yielding wood ? And yet 'twas 
loth 

To yield unto our happy march; 
Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both 

Could pass its green, elastic arch. 



LATHROP. 



585 



Yet there, at last, upon the marge 
We found ourselves, and there, be- 
hold, 
In hosts the lilies, white and large, 
Lay close with hearts of downy 
gold ! 

Deep in the weedy waters spread 

The rootlets of the placid bloom : 
So sprung my love's flower, that was 
bred 
In deep still waters of heart's- 
gloom. 

So sprung; and so that morn was 
nursed 

To live in light, and on the pool 
Wherein its roots were deep immersed 

Burst into beauty broad and cool. 

Few words were said; a moment 
passed ; 

I know not how it came — that awe 
And ardor of a glance that cast 

Our love in universal law. 

But all at once a bird sang loud. 
From dead twigs of the gleamy 
beech ; 
His notes dropped dewy, as from a 
cloud, 
A blessing on our married speech. 

Ah, Love ! how fresh and rare, even 
now. 
That moment and that mood re- 
ttn-n 
Upon me, when the soft winds l)low. 
And lilies toward the sunlight 
yearn ! 



SAILOR'S SONG. 



The 



sea goes up, the sky comes 
down. 
Oh, can you spy the ancient town, — 
The granite hills so hard and gray. 
That rib the land behind the bay ? 
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
O ye ho! 



Three years ? Is it so long that we 
Have lived upon the lonely sea ? 
Oh, often 1 thought we'd see the 

town. 
When the sea went up, and the sky 
came down. 
O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
Fair winds, boys ; send her home ! 
O ye ho ! 

Even the winter winds would rouse 
A memory of my father's house; 
For round his windows and his door 
They made the same deep, mouthless 
roar. 
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
O ye ho ! 

And when the summer's breezes 

beat, 
Methought I saw the sunny street 
Where stood my Kate. Beneath her 

hand 
She gazed far out, far out from land. 
O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
O ye lio ! 

Fartliest away, I oftenest dreamed 
That I was with her. Then, it 

seemed 
A single stride the ocean wide 
Had bridged and brought me to her 
side. 
O ye ho, boys ! Spread lier wings ! 
Fair winds, boys: s(-nd her home! 
Oyeho! 

But though so near we're drawing, 

now, 
'T is farther off — I know not how. 
We sail and sail : we see no home. 
Would we into the port were come I 
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
Fair winds, boys : send her home I 
Oyeho! 

At night, the same stars o'er the 

mast : 
The mast sways round — however fast 



38<; 



LAZARUS. 



We fly — still sways and swings 

around 
One scanty circle's starry bound. 
O ye ho, boys! .Spread her wings I 
Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
O ye ho ! 

Ah. many a month those stars have 

shone. 
And many a golden morn has flown, 
Since that so'solenui happy morn, 
When, I away, my babe was born. 
O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
O ye ho! 

And, though so near we're drawing 

now, 
'T is farther otf — I know not how — 
I would not aught amiss had come 
To babe or mother there, at home ! 
O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
O ye ho! 

■Tis but a seeming; swiftly rush 
The seas, beneath. 1 hear the crush 
Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. 
Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. 

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 

Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
O ye ho ! 

Patience, my mates! Though not 

this eve, 
We cast our anchor, yet believe, 



If but the wind holds, short the run : 
We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. 

O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 

Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
i) ye ho ! 



A FACE IN THE STREET. 

PooK, withered face, that yet was 
once so fair. 
Grown ashen-old in the wild fires 

of lust — 
Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with 

earthly dust, 
Yet breathing of a pm-er native air; 
They who, whilom, cursed vultures, 
sought a share 
Of thy dead womanhood, their 

greed unjust 
Have satisfied, have stripped and 

left thee bare. 
Still, like a leaf warped by the au- 
tumn gust. 
And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st 
in flame 
And perfume all thy hollow-eyed 
decay. 
Feigning on those gray cheeks the 
blush that Shame 
Took with her when she fled long 
since away. 
Ah God! rain fire iipon this foul- 

souled eity 
That gives such death, and spares its 
men, — for pity! 



Emma Lazarus. 



[From Scenes in the Wood. Siujyested by 
Jiobert Schumann.'] 

PLEASANT PROSPECT. 

Hail, free, clear heavens! above our 
heads again, 
With white-winged clouds that melt 
before the sun : 
Hail, good green earth! with blos- 
soms, grass and grain : 
O'er the soft rye what silvery rip- 
ples run ! 



What tawny shado^\■s ! Slowly we 
have won 

This high hill's top: on the wood's 
edge we stand. 

While like a sea below us rolls the 
land. 

The meadows blush with clover, and 
the air 
Is honeyed with its keen but spicy 
smell ; 

In silence graze the kine, but every- 
where 



LAZABUS. 



887 



I'ipe the glad birds that in the for- 
est dwell ; 
Where hearths are set curled 
wreaths of vapor tell; 
Life's grace and promise win the soul 

again ; 
Hope floods the heart like sunshine 
after rain. 



The wood is past, and tranquil mead- 
ows wide, 

Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on 
every side. 



[From Scenes in t/te Wood. Suggested by 
Robert Schumann.] 

NIGHT. 

White stars begin to prick the wan 
blue sky. 
The trees arise, thick, black and 
tall: between 
Their slim, dark boles, gray, film- 
winged gnats that fly 
Against the failing western red are 

seen. 
The footpaths dimib with moss 
have lost their green. 
Mysterious shadows settle every- 
where, 
A passionate murmur trembles in the 
air. 

Sweet scents wax richer, freshened 
with cool dews, 
The whole vast forest seems to 
breathe, to sigh 
With rustle, hmn and whisper that 
confuse 
The listening ear, blent with the 

fitful cry 
Of some belated bird. In the far 
sky. 
Throbbing with stars, there stirs a 

weird unrest. 
Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the 
breast — 

A longing born of fears and promises, 

A Willi desire, a hope that heeds no 

bound. 

A ray of ]noonlightstruggling through 

the trees 

Startles us like a i)hantoni; on the 

ground 
Fall curious shades; white glory 
spreads ai-oimd; 



A MARCH VIOLET. 

Black boughs against a pale clear 

sky. 
Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating 

by: 
Soft sinilight, gray-blue smoky air, 
Wet thawing snows on hillsides bare; 
Loud streams, moist sodden earth; 

below 
Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow 
Through frozen veins of rigid wood, 
And the whole forest bestirs in bud. 
Xo longer stark the branches spread 
An iron network overhead. 
Albeit naked still of green; 
Through this soft, lustrous vapor 

seen 
On budding boughs a warm flush 

glows. 
With tints of purple and pale rose. 
Bi-eathing of spring, the delicate air 
Lifts playfully the loosend hair 
To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest 
In this bright, sheltered nook, now 

blest 
AVith broad noon siuishine over all, 
Though here June's leafiest shadows 

fall. 
Young grass sprouts here. Look up ! 

the sky 
Is veiled by woven greenery. 
Fresh little folded leaves — the first. 
And goldener than green, they burst 
Their thick full biids and take the 

breeze. 
Here, when November stripped the 

trees. 
I came to wrestle with a grief: 
Solace I sought not. nor relief. 
I shed no tears, I craved no grace 
I fain would see Giief face to face, 
Fathom her awful eyes at length, 
Measure my strength against her 

strength, 
I wondered why the Preacher saith. 
"Like as the grass that witheretb.'" 






LAZARUS. 



The late, close blades still waved 

around ; 
Iclutolu'd a handful from the ground. 
•' He mocks us cruelly," 1 said: 
■'The frail herb lives and she is 

dead." 
1 lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she; 
The long slow hours passed over me, 
1 saw Grief face to face ; I know 
The very form and traits of AVoe. 
1 drained the galled dregs of the 

draught 
SJieottereduie: I could have laughed 
in irony of sheer despair, 
Although I could not weep. The air 
Thickened with twilight shadows 

dim: 
I T'ose and left. I knew each limb 
Of these great trees, each gnarled, 

rough root 
Piercing the clay, each cone of fruit 
They bear in autumn. 

What blooms here. 
Filling the honeyed atmosphere 
With faint, delicious f ragrancies, 
Fj'eighted with blessed memories ? 
The earliest March violet, 
Dear as the image of Eegret, 
And beautiful as Hope. Again 
Past visions thrill and haunt my 

brain. 
Through tears I see the nodding head, 
The }>urple and the green dispread. 
Here, where I nursed despair that 

morn. 
The promise of fresh joy is l)orn, 
Arrayed in sober colors still. 
But piercing the gray mould to fill 
With vague sweet influence the air, 
'I'o lift the heart's dead weight of 

care. 
Longings and golden dreams to bring 
Witii joyous phantasies of spring. 



REMEMBEIi. 

Remember Him, the only One. 

Now, ere the years flow by, — 
Now, wliile the smile is on thy lip. 

The light within thine eye. 
Now, ere for thee the sun have lost 

Its glory and its light, 
And earth rejoice thee not with 
flowers. 

Nor with the stai-s the night. 
Now, while thou Invest earth, be- 
cause 

She is so wondrous fair 
With daisies and witli prinnoses, 

And sunlit, waving air: 
And not because her bosom liolds 

Thy dearest and thy best. 
And some day will thyself infold 

In calm and peaceful rest. 
Now, while thou lovest violets. 

Because mid grass they wave, 
And not because they bloom upon 

Some early-shapen grave. 
Now, while thon lovest trembling 
stars. 

But just because they shine. 
And not because they' re nearer one 

Who never can be thine. 
Now, while thou lovest music's 
strains, 

Because they cheer thy heart. 
And not because from acliing eyes 

They make the tear-drops start. 
Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth 

And deemest all will last. 
Before thy hope is vanished quite , 

And every joy has past ; 
Remember Him, the only One, 

Before the days draw nigh 
When thou shalt have no joy in 
them. 

And praying, yearn to die. 



LEL AND. — LEY DEN. 



Charles Godfrey Leland. 



MINE OWS. 

And oh, the longing, bm-ning eyes! 

And oh, the gleaming hair 
Which waves around me, night and 
day, 

O'er chamber, hall, and stair! 

And oh, the step, half-dreamt, half 
heard ! 

And oh, the laughter low ! 
And memories of merriment 

Which faded long ago ! 

Oh, art thou Sylph, — or trvily Self, — 

Or either at thy choice ? 
Oh, speak in breeze or beating heart, 

But let me hear thy voice! 

'"Oh, some do call me Laughter, love; 

And some do call me Sin:'' 
" And they may call thee what they 
will, 

So I thy love may win." 

" Anil some do call me Wantonness, 
And some ilo call me Play : '' 



" Oh, they might call thee what they 
would 
If thou wert mine alway!" 

" And some do call me Sorrow, love, 
And some do call me Tears, 

And some there be who name me 
Hope, 
And some that name me Fears. 

" And some do call me Gentle Heart, 
And some Forget fulness : * ' 

" And if thou com'stas one or all, 
Thou comest but to bless! " 

" And some do call me Life, sweet- 
heart. 

And some do call me Death ; 
And he to whom the two are one 

Has won my heart and faith." 

She twined her white arms round his 
neck : — 

The tears fell down like rain. 
" And if I live or if 1 die. 

We'll never part again." 



John Leyden. 



ODE TO AN INDIAN COIN. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine! 

What vanity has brouglit thee here? 
How can 1 love to see thee shine 
So bright, whom I have bought so 

dear '? — 
The tent-ropes Happing lone I hear, 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
The jackal's shriek bursts on mine 
ear 
Whom mirth and music wont to 
charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams. 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the 
wild. 




Sweet visions haunt my waking 
dreams 
Of Teviot loved while still a child. 
Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 
Where loves of youth and friend- 
ship smiled, 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from mem- 
ory fade ! — 
The perished bliss of youth's first 
prime. 
That once so bright on fancy played, 
Kevives no more in after time. 
Far from my sacred natal clime, 



LODGE. 



I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring tlioughts that soared 
sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southei'n wave, 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire 
drear. 
A gentle vision comes by night 
My lonely widowed heart to cheer; 
Her eyes are dim witli many a tear, 
That once were guiding stars to 
mine: 
Her fond heart throbs with many 
a fear ! 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that loved me true ! 



I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 
To roam in climes unkind and new. 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

Chill on my withered heart: the grave 
Dark and untimely met my view, — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha! comest thou now so late to 
mock 
A wanderer's banished heart for- 
lorn. 
Now that his frame the lightning 
shock 
Of sun-rays tipt with death has 

borne ? 
From love, from friendship, coun- 
try, torn. 
To memory's fond regrets the prey. 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn I 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 



Thomas Lodge. 



ROSALINE. 

Like to the clear in highest sphere, 
Wliere all imperial glory shines. 

Of self-same color is her hair, 
Whether unfolded or in twines : 

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
Refining heaven by every winlc ; 

The gods do fear when as they glow, 
And I do tremble when I think. 



Her 



lilce the blushinc 



cheeks are 
cloud, 
That beautifies Aurora's face; 
Or nice the silver crimson sliroud, 
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth 
grace. 

Her lips are like two budded roses, 
Wlioni ranks of lilies neighbor 
nigh; 



Within which bounds she balm en- 
closes, 
Apt to entice a deity. 

Her neck like to a stately tower, 
Where love himself imprisoned lies, 

To watch for glances, every hour. 
From her divine and sacred eyes. 



With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
Witli marble white, with sappliire 
blue. 

Her body everywhere is fed. 
Yet soil in touch and sweet in vie\\ . 

Nature herself her shape admires; 

The gods are wounded in her sight; 
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires. 

And at her eyes his brand doth 
light. 



L GAN — L ONOFELL 0\V 



341 



John Logan. 



THE CUCKOO. 



Hail, beauteous stranger of the 
grove ! 

Thou messenger of spring ! 
Xow heaven repairs thy rural seat. 

And woods thy welcome sing. 



Soon as the daisy decks the green, 
Thy certain voice we hear. 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
Or mark the rolling year '> 



Delightful visitant ! with thee 
I hail the time of flowers, 

And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 



The schoolboy, wandering through 
the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts thy most ciu-ious voice to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy sonc. 

No winter in thy year! 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 

We'd make with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Attendants on the spring. 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE LADDElt OF ST. AUGUSTIKE. 

Saint Aucustine ! well hast thou 
said. 
That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of 
shame ! 

All common things, each day's 
events. 
That with the hour begin and end. 
Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may as- 
cend. 

The low desire, the base design, 
That makes another's virtues less: 

The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all occasions of excess: 

The longing for ignoble things: 
The strife for triumph more than 
truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that 
brings 
Irreverence for the dreams of vouth : 



All thoughts of ill: all evil deeds. 
That have their root in thoughts of 
ill: 

AVhatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will; — 

All these must first be trampled 
down 

Beneath our feet, if we would gain 
In the bright fields of fair renown 

The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar : 
But we have feet to scale and climb 

By slow degrees, by more and more. 
The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 
That wedge-like cleave the desert 
airs. 

When nearer seen, and better known. 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies. 

Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to hisrher bn-els rise. 



im. 



The heights by great men reached 
and kept 
Were not attained by sndden fliglit, 
But tliey, while tlieir companions 
slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 
With shovdders bent and downcast 
eyes. 

We may discern — unsecMi before — 
A laath to higher destinies. 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last, 
To somethinsr nobler we attain. 



WEARINESS. 

O LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and 
fears 
Must ache and bleed beneath your 
load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease, and rest begin. 
Am weary, thinking of your road. 

O little hands ! that weak or strong. 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask; 
1, who so much witli book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men. 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

O little hearts I that throb and beat 
With sucli impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and 

burned. 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires, 

O little souls ! as piu'c and white 
And ciystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source 
divine; 
Refracted through the mist of years. 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine! 



THE MEETING. 

Afteh so long an absence 
■ At last we meet again ; 
Does the meeting give us pleasure, 
Or does it give us pain? 

The tree of life has been shaken, 
And but few of us linger now, 

Like the Prophet's two or three ber- 
ries 
In the top of the uppermost bough. 

We cordially greet each other 

In the old familiar tone : 
And ^ve think, though we ilo not say 
it, 

How old and gray he is grown I 

We speak of a Merry Christmas, 
And many a happy New Year; 

But each in his heart is flunking 
Of those that are not here. 

We speak of friends and their for- 
tunes. 

And of what they did and said, 
Till the ilead alone seem living. 

And the living alone seem dead. 

And at last we hardly distinguish 
Between the ghosts and the guests ; 

And a mist and shadow of sadness 
Steals over our merriest jests. 



ST A Y, ST A Y AT HOME, MY HEART, 
AND REST. 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and 

rest ; 
Home-keeping hearts are happiest. 
For those that wander they know not 

where 
Are full of trouble and full of care ; 
To stay at home is best. 

Weary and homesick and distressed, 
They wander east, they wander west. 
And are ballled and beaten and blown 

about 
By the winds of tlni wilderness of 

doubt ; 
To stay at home is best. 



i>^ 






■^^SSfe 




MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 



Page 343. 



LOlsGFELLOW 



y>A:i 



Then stay at home, my heart, and 

rest : 
The bird is safest in its nest; 
O'er all that flutter their wings and 

%, 
A hawk is hovering in the sky : 
To stay at home is best. 



NATURE. 

As a fond mother, when the day is 

o'er, 
Leads liy the hand her little child 

to bed, 
Half-willing, half-reluctant to be 

led, 
Anil leave his broken j)Iaythings on 

the floor. 
Still gazing at them through the open 

door ; 
Nor wholly reassured and com- 
forted 
By promises of others in their 

stead, 
Which, though more splendid, may 

not please him more ; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes 

away 
Our playthings one by one, and by 

the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently, that we 

go 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or 

stay. 
Being too full of sleep to under- 
stand 
How far the unknown transcends 

the what we know. 



THFJ TIDES. 

I SAW the long line of the vacant 

shore, 
The sea-weed and the shells upon 

the sand, 
And the brown rocks left bare on 

every hand, 
As if the ebbing tide would flow no 

more. 



Then heard I, more distinctly than 
before. 

The ocean breathe, and its great 
breast expand ; 

And hurrying came on the defence- 
less land 

The insurgent waters with tumul- 
tuous roar. 
All thought and feeling and desire, I 
said, 

Love, laughter, and the exultant 
joy of song. 

Have ebbed from me forever! Suii- 
denly o'er me 
They swept again from their deep 
ocean-bed, 

And in a tumult of delight, and 
strong 

As youth, and beautiful as youth, 
ujibore me. 



MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK, 
MAIDEN. 

Weatuercock on the village 

spire. 
With your golden feathers all on 

fire, 
Tell me, what can you see from your 

perch 
Above there over the tower of t\\c. 

church ? 

WEATHEnCOCK. 

1 can see the roofs and the streets be- 

low. 
And the people moving to and fro, 
And beyond, without "either roof or 

street, 
The great salt sea, and the fisher- 
man's fleet. 

I can see a ship come sailing in 
Beyond the headlands and harbor of 

Lynn, 
And a young man standing on the 

deck. 
With a silken kerchief round his 

neck. 

Now lie is pressing it to his lips, 
And now he is kissing his fingei-tips, 



344 



LONOFELLOW. 



And now he is lifting and waving his 

hand, 
And blowing the kisses toward the 

land. 



Ah ! that is the ship from over the sea. 
That is bringing my lover back to m»_\ 
Bringing my lover so fond and true, 
Wlu) does not change with the wind 
like you. 

AVP:ATnERCOCK. 

If I change with all the winds that 

blow. 
It is only because they made me so, 
And people would think it wondrous 

strange, 
If f, a weathercock, should not 

change. 

O pretty maiden, so fine and fair. 

With your dreamy eyes and your 
golden hair, 

■WHien you and your lover meet to- 
day 

You will thank me for looking some 
other way ! 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 

The doors are all wide open; at the 
gate 

The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a 
blaze. 

And seem to warm the air; a 
dreamy haze 

Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows 
like a fate; 
And on their margin, with sea-tides 
elate. 

The flooded Charles, as in the hap- 
pier days. 

Writes the last letter of his name, 
and stays 

His restless steps, as if compelled 
to wait. 
1 also wait; but they will come no 
more, 

Those friends of mine, whose pres- 
ence satisfied 



The thirst and hunger of my heart. 

Ah me I 
They have forgotten the pathway to 

my door! 
Something is gone from nature 

since they died. 
And svnnmer is not sunnner, nor 

can be. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morn- 
ing broke; 
The daA\n was on their faces, and 
beneath. 
The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the 
same. 
Alike their featui'es and their robes 
of white. 
But one was crowned with amaranth 
as with flame. 
And one with asphodels, like flakes 
of light. 

I saw them pause on their celestial 
way: 
Then said I, with deep fear and 
doubt oppressed. 
"Beat not so loud, my heart, lost 
thou betray 
The place where thy beloved are at 
rest!" 

And he who wore the crown of as- 
phodels. 
Descending, at my door began to 
knock. 
And my soul sank within me, as in 
wells 
The waters sink before an earth- 
quake's shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony. 
The terror and the tremor and the 
pain. 
That oft before had filled or haunted 
me. 
And now retiu-ned with threefold 
strength again. 



LONGFELLOW. 



345 



The door I opened to my heavenly 
guest. 
And listened, for I thought I heard 
God's voice; 
And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent 
was best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to re- 
joice. 

Then with a smile, that tilled the 
house with light, 
" My errand is not Death, but 
Life," he said; 
And ere he answered, passing out of 
sight. 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'Twas at thy door, O friend, and not 
at mine. 
The angel with the amaranthine 
wreath. 
Pausing, descended, and with voice 
divine, 
Whispered a word that hail a sound 
Mice death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden 
gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair 
and thin ; 
And softly from that hushed and 
darkened room. 
Two angels issued, where but one 
went in. 

All is of (4od! If He but wave his 
hand. 
The mists collect, the rain falls 
thick and loud. 
Till, with a smile of light on sea and 
land, 
Lo! He looks back from the de- 
parting cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are 
His; 
Without His leave, they pass no 
threshold o'er; 



Who, then, would wish or dare, be- 
lieving this. 
Against His messengers to shut the 
door ? 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

GIFT of God ! O perfect day: 
Whereon shall no man work, but 

play 
Whereon it is enough for me, 
Not to be doing, but to be ! 

Through every fibre of my brain. 
Through every nerve, through every 
vein, 

1 feel the electric thrill, the touch 
Of life, that seems almost too much. 

I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing celestial symplionies; 
I see the branches downward bent. 
Like keys of some great instrument. 

And over me unrolls on high 
The splendid scenery of the sky. 
Where through a sapphire sea, the 

sun 
Sails like a golden galleon. 

Towards yonder cloud-lands in the 

west. 
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
Its craggy summits white with drifts. 

Blow, winds! and waft through all 
the rooms 

The snow-flakes of the cherry- 
blooms ! 

Blow, winds! and bend within my 
reach 

The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 

O Life and Love ! O happy throng 
Of thoughts, whose only speech is 

song! 
( ) heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 



34(3 



L ONOFELL OW—LO VELA CE. 



Samuel Longfellow. 



FROM MIRE TO BLOSSOM. 
NOVEMBEi;. 

The dead leaves, their rich mosaics 
Of olive and gold and brown, 

Had laid on the rain-wet pavement, 
Through all the embowered town. 

They were washed by the autumn 

tempest, 

They were trod by hurrying feet. 

And the maids came out with their 

besoms 

And swept them into the street, 

To be crushed and lost forever, 
'Neath the wheels in the black 
nnre lost; 

The .Summer's precious darlings. 
She nurtured at such cost ! 



O words that have fallen from me! 

O golden thoughts and true ! 
Must I see in the leaves, a symbol 

Of the fate which avvaiteth you ? 



Again has come the spring-time, 
\Vjth the crocus's golden bloom, 

With the smell of the fresh-turned 
earth-mould. 
And the violet's perfume. 

O gardener I tell me the secret 
Of thy flowers so rare and sweet I 

" I have only enriched my garden 
With the black mire from the 
street!" 



Richard Lovelace. 



TO LUC AST A, ON GOING BEYOND 

THE SEAS. 

If to be absent Avere to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that \\hen I am gone 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swal- 
lowing wave. 

Though seas and land betwixt us 
"both. 
Our faith and troth. 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as an- 
gels greet. 

So then we do anticipate 
Our after-fate. 
And are alive in the skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 



Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, their earthly bodies left 
behind. 



TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE 
WARS. 

Teli. me not, sweet, I am inikind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, shall adore, 
I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved 1 not honor moi'e. 




LOVER. 



ni 



Samuel Lover. 



on; WATCH YOU WEI J. BY DAY- 
LIGHT. 

Oil ! watch you well by daylight, 

By daylight may you fear, 
But keep no watch in darkness — 

The angels then are near; 
For Heaven the sense bestoweth, 

Our waking lite to keep, 
But tender mercy showeth, 

To guard us in our sleep. 
Then watch you well by daylight. 

By daylight may you fear, 
But keep no watch in darkness — 

The angels then are near. 

Oh ! watch you well in pleasure — 

For pleasure oft betrays. 
But keep no watch in sorrow, 

When joy withdraws its rays : 
For in the hour of sorrow, 

As in the darkness drear. 
To Heaven entrust the morrow. 

For the angels then are near. 
O watch you well by daylight. 

By daylight may you fear, 
But keep no watch in darkness — 

The angels then are near. 



THE CHILD AND THE AUTUMN 
LEAF. 

Down by the river's bank I strayed 

Upon an autumn day ; 
Beside the fading forest there, 

I saw a child at play. 
She played among the yellow leaves — 

The leaves that once were green. 
And flung upon the passing stream 

What once had blooming been: 
Oh ! deeply did it touch my lieart 

To see that child at play; 
It was the sweet imconscious sport 

Of childhood with decay. 

Fair child, if by this stream you 
stray. 
When after years go by. 
The scene that makes thy childhood's 
sport. 
May wake thy age's sigh: 



AVhen fast you see around you fall 

iMie summer's leafy pride. 
And mark the river hurrying on 

Its ne'er retm-ning tide; 
Then may you feel in pensive mood 

That life's a summer di-eani; 
And man, at last, forgotten falls — 

A leaf ui)on the stream. 



THE ANGErS WING. 

When by the evening's quiet light 

There sit two silent lovers. 
They say, while in such tranquil 
plight, 
An angel round them hovers ; 
And further still old legends tell, — 
The first who breaks the silent spell, 
To say a soft and pleasing thing. 
Hath felt the passing angel's wing! 

Thus, a musing minstrel strayed 

By the sinnmer ocean. 
Gazing on a lovely maid. 

With a bard's devotion: — 
Yet this love he never spoke, 
Till now the silent spell he broke; — 
The hidden lire to flame did spring, 
Fanned by the passing angel's wing! 

" I have loved thee well and long. 
With love of heaven's own mak- 
ing ! — 
This is not a poet's song. 

But a true heart's speaking, — 
I will love thee, still, untired!" 
He felt — he spoke — as one inspired, 
The words did from Truth's foun- 
tain spring. 
Upwaken'd by the angel's wing. 

Silence o'er the maiden fell. 
Her beauty lovelier making: — 

And by her blush, he knew full well 
The dawn of love was breaking. 

It came like siuishine o'er his heart! 

He felt that they should never ])art. 

She spoke — and oh! — the lovely 
thing 

Had felt the passing angel's wing. 



348 



LOWELL. 



YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO 

SIGHS. 

Oil ! yield not, thou sad one, to 
sighs. 
Xor murmur at Destiny' s will. 
Behold, for each pleasure that flies, 

Another replacing it still. 
Time's wing, were it all of onefeather. 

Far slower would be in its flight : 
The storm gives a charm to fine 
weather, 
And day would seem dark without 
night. 
Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
sighs. 

When ^\•e look on some lake that 
repeats 

The loveliness bounding its shore, 
A breeze o'er the soft surface fleets. 

And the mirror-like beauty is o'er. 



But the breeze, ere it ruflled the deep. 

Pervading the odorous bowers. 
Awaken' d the flowers from their 
sleep. 
And wafted their sweets to be ours. 
Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
sighs. 

Oh. blame not the change nor the 

flight 

Of our joys as they're passing away, 

'Tis the swiftness and change give 

delight — [stay. 

They would pall if permitted to 

More gaily they glitter in flying. 

They perish in lustre still bright, 
Like the hues of the dolphin, in dy- 
ing. 
Or the humming-bird's wing in its 
flight. 
Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
sighs. 



James Russell Lowell. 



THE HERITAGE. 

The rich man's son inherits lands. 
And piles of brick, and stone, and 
gold. 
And he inherits soft white hands. 
And tender flesh that fears the 

cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
A heritage, it seems to me. 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares; 
The bank may break, the factory 
burn. 
A breath may burst his bubble shares. 
And soft white hands could hardly 

earn 
A living that would serve his turn; 
A heritage, it seems to me. 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants. 
His stomach craves for dainty 
fare ; 



With sated heart, he hears the 
pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms 

bare. 
And wearies in his easy-chair ; 
A heritage, it seems to me. 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son in- 
herit ? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 
King of two hands, he does his part 

In evei-y useful toil and art ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son in- 
herit ? 
Wishes o'ci'joyed with humble 
thin2;s, 
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit. 
Content that from employment 
springs. 



M 



LOWELL. 



349 



A heart that in his labor sings ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A liing miglat wisli to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son in- 
herit •? 
A patience learned of being poor, 

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man's son! there is a toil 
That with all others level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft white liands, 
This is the best crop from thy 
lands ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

O poor man's son! scorn not thy 
state ; 
There is worse weariness than 
thine, 
In merely being ricli and great; 
Toil only gives the soul to shine. 
And makes rest fragrant and be- 
nign; 
A heritage, it seems to me. 
Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By records of a well-filled past; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 



[From the Visio7i of Sir Laun/al.] 
THE GENEROSITY OF NATURE. 

Eaktii gets its price for what earth 
gives us ; 
Thebeggar is taxed for a corner to 
die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes 
and slirives us, 
We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 



At the devil's booth are all things 

sold, 
Each omice of dross costs its ounce of 
gold; 
For a cap and bells om* lives we 
pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's 
tasking: 
'Tis heaven alone that is given 
away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the 

asking. 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest 

comer. 
And what is so rare as a day in 
June '? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be 
in tune. 
And over it softly her warm ear 
lays: 
Whether we look, or whether we lis- 
ten. 
We hear life murmur or see it glisten; 
Eveiy clod feels a stir of might. 
An instinct within it that reaches 
and towers. 
And, groping blindly above it for 
light. 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flow- 
ers: 
The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling back over hills and val- 
leys; 
The cowslij) startles in meadows 

green. 
The buttercup catches the sun in 
its chalice. 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade 
too mean 
To be some happy creature's j)al- 
ace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the 
sun, 
Atilt like a blossom among the 
leaves. 
And lets liis illumined being o'errun 
With the deluge of summer it re- 
ceives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her 

wings, 
And the lieart in her dumb breast 
flutters and sings ; 



He sings to llie wide world, and she 

to her nest, — 
In tlie nice ear of Nature which song 

is tlie best ? 

Now is tlie high-tide of the year. 
And whatever of life hath ebbed 

away 
ronies flooding back with a ripply 

cheer. 
Into every bare inlet and creek and 

bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop 

overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills 

it; 
No matter how bari'en the past may 

have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the 

leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel 

right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blos- 
soms swell; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot 

help knowing [ing. 

That skies are clear and grass is grow- 
The breeze comes whispering in our 

ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 
'I'liat maize has sprouted, that 

streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house 

hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news 

back. 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer s 

lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the 

year. 
Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not 

how; 
Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be 

true 
As foi' grass to be green or skies to be 
blue, — 
'Tis the natural way of living: 



Who knows whither the clouds have 
fled ? 
In the unscarred lieaven they leave 
no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they 
have shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and 
ache. 



AFTEn THE BUIUAL. 

YF:f^, faith is a goodly anchor; 
AVhen skies are sweet as a psalm. 
At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 
In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

And when over breakers to leeward 
The tattered surges are hurled. 
It may keep our head to the tempest. 
With its grip on the base of the 
MO rid. 

But, aftei' the shipMreck. tell me 
AVhat help in its iron thews. 
Still true to the broken hawser. 
Deep down among sea-weed and 
ooze? 

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
When the helpless feet stretch out 
And find in the deeps of darkness 
No footing so solid as doubt. 

Then better one spar of memory, 
One broken plank of the i)ast. 
That our human heart may cling to. 
Though hopeless of shore at last! 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures. 
To the flesh its sweet despair, 
Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket 
With its anguish of deathless hair! 

Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
Who doubts it of such as she ? 
But tluit is the pang's verj' secret; 
Immortal a^ay from me! 

There's a narrow I'idge in the grave- 
yard 

Would scarce stay a child in his 
race, 

But to me and my thought, it is wider 

Than the star-sown vague of space. 




AUF WIEDER5EHEN. (TILL WE MEET AGAIN 



Page 351. 



I 



LOWELL. 



851 



Your logic, my friend, is perfect. 
Your uiorals most drearily true; 
But, siuce the earth clashed ou her 

coffin, 
I keep hearing that, and not you. 

Console if you will. 1 can bear it; 
"Tis a well-meant alms of breath; 
But not all the preaching since Adam 
Has made death other than death. 

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it; 
That jar of our earth, that dull shock 
When the ploughshare of deeper pas- 
sion 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion in spirit I Forgive me ! 
But I, who am earthy and weak, 
AVoukl give all my incomes from 

dreamland 
For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 

That little shoe in the corner. 
So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
With its emptiness confutes jou, 
.\.nd argues your wisdom down. 



[From Under the Willoivs.] 
JUNE. 

Frank-hearted hostess of the field 

and wood, 
Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading 

tree, 
Jime is the pearl of our New England 

year. 
Still a surprisal, though expected 

long. 
Her coming startles. Long she lies 

in wait, 
Makes many a feint, peeps forth, 

draws coyly back. 
Then, from some southern ambush 

in the sky. 
With one great gush of blossom 

storms the world. 
A week ago tbe sparrow was divine ; 
The blue-bird shifting his light load 

of song 
From post to post along the cheerless 

fence. 



Was as a rhymer ere the poet come : 
But now, O rapture ! sunshine-winged 

and voiced, 
Pilje blown through by the warm 

wild breath of the West, 
Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy 

cloud. 
Gladness of woods, skies, waters all 

in one. 
The bobolink has come, and, like the 

soul 
Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, 
Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, 
SavCf/Hne .' Dear June ! Noic God be 

praised for June. 



AUF WIEDEliSEHEX. 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half liid in lilacs down the lane; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said. — ''Auf iciederse/ien .' " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said,— ''Auf iciedersehen ! " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the 
stair; 
I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely 
dare. 
Thinks she, — '^Attfiviedersehen ! " 

"Tis thirteen years; once more I 
press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

1 hear "Aiif loiedersehen ! ''' 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 
The English words had seemed too 
fain. 
But these — they drew us heart to 

heart. 
Yet held us tenderly apart; 
She said, — "Auf ifiedersehen ! '' 



352 



LOWELL. 



STORM AT APPLEDOIiE. 

How looks Appledore in a storm ? 
I have seen it wlien its crags 

seemed frantic, 
Butting against tlie mad Atlantic, 
When surge on surge would heap 
enorme, 
Cliffs of emerald topped with snow. 
That lifted and lifted, and then let 
go 
A great white avalanche of thunder, 
A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 
Monadnock might have trembled un- 
der ; 
And the island, whose rock-roots 

pierce below 
To where they are warmed with 
the central fire. 
You could feel its granite fibres 
racked. 
As it seemed to plunge with a 

shudder and thrill 
Right at the breast of the swooping 
hill. 
And to rise again snorting a cataract 
Of rage-froth from every cranny and 
ledge, 
While the sea drew its breath in 
hoarse and deep. 
And the next vast breaker curled its 
edge. 
Gathering itself for a mightier leap. 

North, east, and south there are reef s 
and breakers 
You would never dream of in 
smooth weather. 
That toss and gore the sea for acres. 
Bellowing and gnashing and snarl- 
ing together; 
Look northward, where Duck Island 

lies. 
And over its crown you will see arise. 
Against a background of slaty skies, 
A row of pillars still and white, 
That c;linuuer, and then are out of 
sight, 
As if the moon should suddenly kiss. 
While you crossed the gusty desert 
by night. 
The long colonnades of Persepolis; 
Look southward for White Island 
light, 



The lantern stands ninety feet o'er 

the tide; 
There is (irst a half-mile of tumult 

and fight. 
Of dash and roar and tumble and 
fright. 
And surging bewilderment wild and 
wide, 
Wliere the breakers straggle left and 
right, 
Then a mile or more of rushing 
sea, 
And then the lighthouse slim and 

lone; 
And whenever the weight of ocean is 

thrown 
Full and fair on White Island head, 
A great mist-jotun you will see 
Lifting himself up silently 
High and huge o'er the lighthouse 

top, 
With hands of wavering spray out- 
spread, 
Groping after the little tower. 
That seems to shrink and shorten 
and cower, 
Till the monster's arms of a sudden 
drop, 
And silently and fruitlessly 
He sinks again into the sea. 

You, meanwhile, where drenched 
you stand. 
Awaken once more to the rush and 
roar. 
And on the rock-point tighten your 

hand, 
As you tiu'n and see a valley deep, 
That was not there a moment be- 
fore, 
Suck rattling down between you and a 
heap [fall 

Of toppling billow, whose instant 
Must sink the whole island once 
for all ; 
Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas 
Feeling their way to you more and 
more ; 
If they once should clutch you high 

as the knees. 
They would whirl you down like a 

sprig of kelp. 
Beyond all reach of hope or help; — 
And such in a storm is Appledore. 



LYTE — LYTLE. 



353 



Henry Francis Lyte. 



ABIDE WITH ME. 

Abide with me! fast falls the even- 
tide; 

The darkness deepens; Lord, with 
me abide ! 

When other lielpers fail, and com- 
forts flee. 

Help of the helpless, oh, abide with 
me! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little 

day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories 

pass away ; 
Change and decay in all ai'ound I see; 
O Thon who changest not, abide with 



Not a brief glance, I beg, a passing 
word ; 

But as Thou ihvelledst with Thy dis- 
ciples. Lord, 

Familiar, condescending, patient, 
free, 

Come, not to sojourn, but abide with 
me! 

Come not in terrors, as the King of 

kings; 
But kind and good, with healing in 

Tliy wings; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every 

plea; 
Come, Friend of sinners, thus al)ide 

with me! 



Thou on my head in eaily youth didst 

smile; 
And, thougli rebellious and perverse 

meanwliile, 
Thou hast not left me, oft as 1 left 

Thee. 
On to the close. O Lord, abide with 

me! 

I need Thy presence every passing 

hour : 
What but Thy grace can foil tlie 

tempter's power ? 
Who like Thyself my guide and stay 

can be ? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oli, 

abide with me! 

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to 
bless : 

Ills have no weight, and tears no bit- 
terness : 

Where is Death's sting? Where 
Grave, thy victory ? 

I triumph still," if Thoii abide with 
me! 

Hold, then. Thy cross before my 

closing eyes! 
Shine tlirough the gloom, and point 

me to tlie skies! 
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's 

vain shadows flee ; 
In life and death, O Lord, abide with 

me ! 



William Haines Lytle. 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying. 

Ebbs the crimson life-tiile fast, 
Aiid tlie dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast; 
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold 
me. 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; 
Listen to tlie great heart-secrets. 

Thou, and thou alone, nuist hear. 



Though my scaned and veteran le- 
gions 
Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wrecked and scattered gal- 
leys 
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, 
Though no glittering guards surround 
me. 
Prompt to do their masters will, 
I must perish like a Roman. 
Die the great Triumvir still. 



354 



MACAULAY. 



Let not Caesar's servile minions 

Moclc the lion thus laid low; 
"Twas no foeman's arm that felled 
him, [blow : 

'Twas his own that struck the 
His, who pillowed on thy bosom, 

Turned aside from glory's ray, 
His who, drunk with tliy caresses. 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my name at Rome, 
Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed Iiome, 
Seek her; say the gods bear witness — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
That her blood, with mine commin- 
gled, [kings. 

Yet shall mount the throne of 



As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
Light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile, 
(five the C:esar crowns and arches. 

Let his brow the laurel twine: 
1 can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

1 am dying, Egj-pt, dying! 
Hark ! " the insulting foeman's 



cry. 
They are coming — quick, my 
chion ! 
Let me fi-ont them ere I die. 
Ah ! no moi'e amid the battle 

Shall my heart exvilting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 
Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! 



fal- 



ThoMas Babington Macaulay. 



FROM THE LAY OF "■HORATIUS: 

Laks Porsena of Clusium, 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting-day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth. 
East and west and south and north. 

To sununon his array. 

East and west and south and north 

Tlie messengers ride fast. 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his home, 
AVhen Porsena of ("lusium 

Is on the march for Rome ! 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place. 

From many a fruitful i)lain. 
From many a lonely hamlet. 

Which, hid by beech and pine. 



Like an eagle's nest hangs on the 
crest 
Of purple Apennine : 

There be thirty chosen prophets. 

The Avisest of the land. 
Who always by Lars Porsena 

Both morn and evening stand. 
Evening and morn the Thirty 

Have turned the verses o'er. 
Traced from the right on linen white 

By mighty seers of yore ; 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
" Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven ! 
Go, and return in glory 

To CHusium's royal dome. 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome ! ' ' 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 



Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array ; 
A proinl man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting-day. 

For all the Etruscan armies 

Were ranged beneath liis eye, 
And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally; 
And with a mighty follow ing, 

To join the muster, came 
The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

Now, from the rock Tari)eian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day. 
For every hour some horseman came 

AVith tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westwartl 

Have spread the Tuscan bands. 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustumerium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain; 
Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns. 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council, standing 

Before the River-gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may 
guess, 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

" The bridge must straight go 
down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost. 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying. 
All wild with haste and fear ; 



" To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye. 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still, and still more loud. 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trumpets' war-note 
proud. 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more i)lainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of speai's. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman 

But spat towards him and hissed, 
No child but screamed out curses. 

And shook its little fist. 

But the Consul's brow was sad. 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe: 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town '? ' ' 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds 



For the ashes of his fathers 
And the temples of his gods ? 

" And for the tender motlier 

Who dandled him to rest, 
And for tlie wife who nurses 

His baby at lier breast, 
And for tlie lioly maidens 

Wlio feed tlie eternal flame, — 
To save them from false hiextus 

That wrought the deed of shame? 

•• Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

\Vith ail the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me, 

AVill hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well I)e stopped by three: 
Now who will stand on either hand. 

And keep the bridge with me'?" 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius, — 

A Ramnian proud was he: 
'* Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
And out spake strong Herminius, — 

Of Titian blood was lie: 
'• I will abide on thy left side. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

" Horatius," quoth the Consul, 

'■ As thou sayest so let it be." 
And straight against that great array 

Went forth the dauntless three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold. 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 

In the brave days of old. 

Then none was for a party — 

Then all were for the state; 
Then the great man helped the poor. 

And the poor man loved the great; 
Then lands were fairly portioned! 

Then spoils were fairly sold: 
'l"he Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

Mort! hateful than a foe. 
And the trilmnes beard the liigh, 

And the fathers grind the low. 
As we wax hot in faction. 

In battle we wax cold; 



Wherefore men fight not as they 
fought 
In the brave days of old. 

Now while the three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe; 
And fathers, mixed with commons, 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
And smote upon tlie planks above. 

And loosed the props below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday 

light, 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad son of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee. 
As that great host with measured 

tread, 
And spears advanced, and ensigns 

spread. 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's 
head. 
Where stood the dauntless tlin c 

The three stood calm and silent, 
And looked upon the foes. 

And a great shout of laughter 
From all the vanguard rose; 

And forth three chiefs came spurring 

• Before that dee]) array; 

To earth they sprang, their swords 
they drew. 

And lifted high their shields, and 
flew 
To win the narrow way. 



Herminius smote down Aruns; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low; 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow: 
" lAe tiiere," he cried, " fell pirate! 

No more, aghast and pale. 
From Oslia's walls the crowd shall 

mark 
The track of thy destroying bark ; 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns, when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail! " 



MACAULAV 



357 



But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes : 
A wild and wrathful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears" length from the entrance. 

Halted tliat mighty mass, 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow pass. 

But, hark! the cry is Astur: 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
And inhis hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans, 

A smile serene and high ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was In his eye. 
Quoth he, " Th(> she-wolf's litter 

Stands savagely at bay ; 
But will ye dare to follow. 

If Astur clears the way? " 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height. 
He rushed against Iloratius. 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Right deftly turned the blow. 
The blow, though turned, came yet 

too nigh; 
It missed his hehn, but gashed his 

thigh. 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space. 
Then, like a wild-cat mad with 
wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth and skull and helmet 

So lierce a thrust he sped, |out 

The good sword stood a handbreadth 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great lord of Luna 
Fell at that d(\idly stroke. 

As falls on Mount Avernus 
A thunder-smitten oak. 



Far o'er the crashing forest 
The giant arms lie spread; 

And the pale augurs, nuittering low, 
Gaze on the blasted head. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd; 
Well known was he to all tlie Thre(>, 

And they gave him greeting loud: 
"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the nai-row way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied; 
And now th(> bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius! " 

Loud cried the Fathers all — 
" Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall! " 

Back darted Spxnius Lartius — 

Herminius darted back; 
And, as they passed, beneath their 
feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces. 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once 
mon>; 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam. 
And, like a dain, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was sjilashed the yellow foam. 

And like a horse unbroken. 
When first he feels the rein, 



358 



MACAULAV. 



The furious river struggled hard, 
And tossed his tawny mane, 

And burst the curb, anil bounded, 
Rejoicing to be free ; 

And whirling down, in fierce career, 

Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatlus, 

IJut constant still in mind — 
Thrice tliirty thousand foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
'"Down with him!" cried false 
Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face; 
'•Now yield thee," cried Lars Por- 
sena, 

' ' Now yield thee to our grace ! ' ' 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Tliose craven ranks to see : 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he ; 
l>ut he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome : 

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 

Take thou in charge this day!" 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And, with his harness on his back. 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sovmd of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank, 
But friends and foes in dumb sur- 
prise. 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And wlien above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current. 
Swollen high by months of rain ; 

And fast his blood was flowing; 
And he was sore in pain. 



And heavy with his armor. 

And spent with changing blows; 

And oft they thought him sinking, 
But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer. 

In sucli an evil case. 
Struggle through such a raging 
^ flood 

Safe to the landing-place; 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within. 
And our good father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sex- 
tus — 

" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town ! " 
"Heaven help liim!" quoth Lars 
Porsena, 

" And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River-Gate. 

Borne by the joyous crowil. 

They gave him of the corn-land. 

That was of i)ublic right. 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till 
night; 
And they made a molten image. 

And set it up on high — 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see, — 
Horatius in his harness 

Halting upon one knee; 
And underneatli is written, 

In letters all of gold. 
How valiantly lie kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 



MAC DONALD. 



359 



George MacDonald. 



THE BABY. 

Where did you come from, baby 

dear ? 
Ont of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get those eyes so bhie? 
Out of tlie sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them spar- 
kle and spin ? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 
1 found it waiting when I got here. 

AVhat makes your forehead so smooth 

and high '? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm 

white rose ? 
I saw something better than any one 

knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of 

bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
(rod spoke," and it came out to hear. 

Wliere did you get those arms and 

hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and 

bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you dar- 
ling things ? 

From the^ same box as the cherub's 
wings. 

How did they all just come to be 

you? 
(Jod thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you 

dear? 
God thought about you, and so I am 

here. 



O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. 

O LASSIE ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
For I want ye sair the nicht, 
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht. 
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 
O lassie, come ower the hill! 

Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, 

i\ nd no a sel' ava ! 

I'm sick o' my held, and my ban's 

and my face. 
An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; 
I'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; 
The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; 
For thro' my een the sunbeams fa', 
But my weary heart they miss. 

lassie ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill; 
Bidena ayont the hill! 

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie held, 
And the sun licht o' yer hair, 
The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun 
" deid; 

1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 
I wad be mysel' nae mair. 
Filled o' the sole remeid ; 

Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer 

hair, 
Killed by yer body and held. 

lassie ayont the hill, etc. 

But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae sma'. 
For the sake o' my bonnie dame. 
Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed 
awa', 

1 could bide my body and name, 

I micht bide by mysel, the weary 
same ; 
Aye setting up its held 
Till I turn frae the claes that cover 

my frame. 
As gin they war roun' the deid. 
O lassie ayont the hill, etc. 



360 



MACK. 



But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you, 
I wad ring my ain deid knell ; 
Mysel' watl vanish, shot through and 

tlirougli 
Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', 
IJy the licht aneatli yer broo, 
I wad dee to niyoel', and ring my bell, 
And only live in you. 



O lassie ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
For I want ye sair the nicht, 
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht, 
P'or I'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
A body's sel' 's the sairest vveicht, — 
O lassie, come ower the hill I 



Frances Laughton Mace. 



EASTER MOIiNING. 

Open the gates of the Temple ; 
Spread branches of palm and of 
bay; 
Let not the spirits of nature 

Alone declc the Conqueror's way. 
While Spring from her death-sleep 
arises, 
And joyous His presence awaits, 
While morning's smile lights up tlie 
lieavens. 
Open the Beautiful Gates. 

He is here! The long watches are 
over. 
The stone from the grave rolled 
away ; 
" We shall sleep," was the sigh of the 
midnight, 
" We shall rise ! " is the song of to- 
day. 
O Music! no longer lamenting. 

On pinions of tremulous llame. 
Go soaring to meet the Beloved, 
And swell the new song of His 
fame! 

The altar is snowy with blossoms, 

'ilip font is a vase of pei-fmne. 
On pillar and chancel are twining 

Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom. 
Christ is risen! with glad lips we 
utter, 

And far up the infinite height, 
Archangels the ]ia;an re-echo. 

And crown Him with Lilies of 
Light: 



ONLY IF A /TING. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer gi-own, 
Only waiting till Ihj glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Till the niglit of earth is faded 

From this heart once full of day, 
Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home. 
For the summer-time hath faded. 

And the autumn winds are come. 
Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly. 

The last ripe hours of my heart, 
For the bloom of life is withered. 

And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate, 
At Avhose feet I long have lingered, 

AVeaiy, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear their footsteps 

And their voices far away — 
If they call me, I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown — 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown. 
When from out the folded darkness 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
By whose light, my soul will gladly 

Wing her passage to the skies. 



MACK A y. 



801 



THE HELIOTROPE. 

SOMEWHEHE 'tis told that in an East- 
ern land, 

Clasped in the dull palm of a mum- 
my's hand, 

A few light seeds were found ; with 
wondering eyes 

And words of awe was lifted up the 
prize. 

And much they marvelled what could 
he so dear 

Of herb or flower as to be treasured 
here ; 

What sacred vow had made the dy- 
ing keep 

So close this token for his last, long 
sleep. 

None ever knew, but in the fresh, 
warm earth 

The cherished seeds sprang to a sec- 
ond birth. 



And, eloquent once more with love 
and hope, 

Burst into bloom the purple helio- 
trope. 



Embalmed perhaps with sorrow's 

fiery tears. 
Out of the silence of a thousand 

years 
It answered back the passion of the 

past 
With the pure breath of perfect peacii 

at last. 



O pulseless heart ! as ages pass, sleep 

well! 
The pun^le flower thy secret will not 

tell, 
But only to our eager quest reply — 
" Love, memory, hope, like me can 

never die !" 



Charles Mackay. 



THE CHILD AND THE MOUllSEUS. 

A LITTLE child, beneath a tree. 
Sat and chanted cheerily 
A little song, a pleasant song, 
Which was, — she sang it all tlay 

long, — 
" When the wind blows the blossoms 

fall, 
But a good God reigns over all! '" 

There passed a lady by the way. 
Moaning in the face of day: 
There were tears upon her cheek. 
Grief in her heart too great to speak; 
Her husband died but yester-morn. 
And left her in the world forlorn. 

She stopped and listened to the cliild. 
That look'd to Heaven, and, singing, 

smiled ; 
And saw not, for her own despair. 
Another lady, young and fair. 
Who, also passing, stopped to hear 
The infant's anthem ringing clear. 



Eor she, but few sad days before, 
Had lost the little babe she bore; 
And grief was heavy at her soul, 
As that sweet memory o'er her stol(\ 
And showed how briglit had been the 

past, 
The pi'esent drear and overcast. 

And as they stood beneath the tree, 
Listening, soothed, and placidly, 
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes, 
Spake of a load of miseries; 
And he, arrested like the twain. 
Stopped to listen to tlie sti-ain. 

Death had bowed the youthful head 
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 
Her marriage robes were fitted on. 
Her fair young face with blushes 

shone. 
When the Destroyer smote her low, 
And left the lover to his woe. 

And the.se three listened to the song 
Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 



362 



MACKAV. 



Which that child, the livelong day, 

Chanted to itself in play: 

'• When the wind blows, the blossoms 

fall, 
I5ut a good God reigns over all." 

The widow's lips impulsive moved; 
The mother's grief, though unre- 

jjroved, 
Softened, as her trembling tongue 
Repeated what the infant sung; 
And the sad lover, with a start. 
Conned it over to his heart. 

And though the child — if child it 

were, 
And not a serajih sitting there — 
Was seen no more, the sorrowing 

three 
AVent on their way resignedly, 
The song still ringing in their ears — 
AVas it music of the spheres ? 

Who shall tell ? They did not know. 
But in tiie midst of deepest woe 
The strain recurred when sorrow grew, 
To warn them, and console them too: 
" When the wind blows, the blossoms 

fall, 
But a good God reigns over all." 



CLEON AXD I. 

Cleon hath ten thousand acres, 

Ne'er a one have I; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace. 

In a cottage, I ; 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes. 

Not a i^enny, I ; 
Yet the poorer of the twain is 

T'leon, and not I. 

( leon, true, possesseth acres, 

But the landscape, I; 
Half the charms to me it yieldeth 

Money cannot buy ; 
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, 

Freshening vigor, I ; 
He in velvet, I in fustian — 

llicher man am I. 



Cleon is a slave to grandeur, 

Free as thought am I ; 
Cleon fees a score of doctors, 

Need of none have I ; 
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, 

Cleon fears to die ; 
Death may come — he'll find me 
ready. 

Happier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charms in Nature, 

In a daisy, I; 
Cleon hears no anthems ringing 

'Twixt tlie sea and sky; 
Nature sings to me forever, 

Earnest listener, I ; 
State for state, with all attendants — 

Who would change ? — Not I. 



CLEAR THE WAY! 

Men of thought! be up and stirring. 

Night and day: 
Sow the seed — withdraw the cur- 
tain — 

Clear the way ! 
Men of action, aid and cheer them. 

As ye may! 
There's a fount about to stream. 
There's a light about to beam. 
There's a warmth about to glow. 
There's a flower about to blow; 
There's a midnight blackness chang- 
ing 

Into gray; 
Men of thought and men of action. 

Clear the way ! 

Once the welcome light has broken. 

Who shall say 
What the unimagined glories 

Of the day ? 
What the evil that shall perish 

In its ray ? 
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 
Aid It, hopes of honest men ; 
Aid it, paper — aid it, type — 
Aid it, for the hour is ripe. 
And our earnest must not slacken 

Into play. 
Men of thought and men of action, 

(."lear the wav ! 



MACKAV. 



363 



Lo ! a cloud 's about to vanish 

From the day ; 
And a brazen wrong to crumble 

Into clay. 
Lo! the Klght's about to conquer. 

Clear the way ! 
With the Eight, shall many more 
Enter, smiling, at the door ; 
With the giaiit Wrong, shall fall 
Many others, great and small. 
That for ages long have held us 

For their prey. 
Men of thought and men of action, 

Clear the ^^■ay ! 



THE GOOD TIME COyflXG. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
We may not live to see the day. 
l>ut earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 
Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought's a weapon stronger; 
We'll win our battle by its aid; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
'i'lie pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Kiirht, not Might, shall be the 
lord 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule man- 
kind. 

And be acknowledged stronger; 
'J'lic proper impulse has been given ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
War, in all men's eyes, shall be 
A monster of iniquity 

In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then. 

To prove which is the stronger; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Hateful rivalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 



In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride. 

And flourish all the stronger; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
And a poor man's family 
.Shall not be his misery 

In the good time coming. 
Every child shall be a help, # 

To make his right arm stronger; 
The happier he, the more he has; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Little children shall not toil. 
Under or above the soil. 

In the good time coming; 
But shall play in healthful fields 

Till limbs and mind grow stronger; 
And every one shall read and write ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, lioys, 

A good time coming: 
The people shall be temperate. 
And shall love instead of hate. 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse. 

And make all virtue stronger 
The reformation has begun ; 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Let us aid it all we can. 
Every woman, every man. 

The good time conung. , 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger; 
'Twill be strong enough one day; — 

Wait a little longer. 



THE LIGHT IX THE WINDOW. 

Late or early, home returning, 
In the starlight or the rain, 
I beheld that lonely candle 
Shining from his window-pane. 



Ever o'er his tattered curtain, 

Nightly looliing, I could scan, 

Aye inditing, 

Writing — writing, 

The pale tigure of a man ; 

Still discern behind him fall 

The same shadow on tlic wall. 

P'ar beyond the murky midnight, 
By dim burning of my oil. 
Filling aye his rapid leaflets, 
I have watcheil him at his toil; 
AVatched his broad and seamy fore- 
head, 
Watched his white industiious hand. 
Ever passing 
And repassing: 

Watched and strove to nntlerstand 
What impelled it — gold, or fame — 
Bread, or bubble of a name. 

Oft I've asked, debating vainly 

In the silence of my mind. 

What the services he rendered 

To his country or his kind; 

Whether tones of ancient music, 

Or the soimd of modern gong, 

Wisdom holy, 

Humors lowly, 

Sermon, essay, novel, song. 

Or philosophy sublime, 

Fill'd the measure of his time. 

No one sought him, no one knew 

him, 
Undistinguished was his name: 
Never had his praise been uttered 
By the oracles of fame. 
Scanty fare and decent raiment, 
IIuml)Ie lodging, and a fire — 
These he sought for. 
These he wrought for. 
And he gained liis meek desire; 
Teaching men by written word — 
Clinging to a hope deferred. 

So he lived. At last I missed him; 
Still might evening twilight fall. 
But no taper lit his lattice — 
Lay no shadow on his wall. 
In the winter of his seasons, 
In the midnight of his day, 
'Mid his writing, 
And inditing, 



Death hath beckoned him away, 
Ere the sentence he had planned 
Found completion at his hand. 

But this ]nan so old and nameless 
Left behind him projects large. 
Schemes of progress undeveloped. 
Worthy of a nation's charge; 
Noble fancies uncompleted, 
Germs of beauty immatured. 
Only needing 
Kindly feeding 

To have nourished and endured ; 
Meet reward in golden store 
To have lived for evermore. 

Who shall tell what schemes maji-stic 

Perish in the active brain ? 

What hmnanity is robbed of, 

Ne'er to be restored again ? 

What we lose, because we honor 

Overmuch the mighty dead, 

And dispirit 

Living merit, 

Heaping scorn upon its head ? 

Or perchance, when kinder grown, 

Leaving it to die — alone ? 



o YE TEAns; 

vp: tears I O ye tears ! that have long 

refused to flow, 
Ye are welcome to my heart — thaw- 
ing, thawing, like the snow; 

1 feel the hard cfod soften, and the 

early snowdrops si)ring. 
And the healing fountains gush, and 
the wildernesses sing. 

O ye tears ! O ye tears! I am thank- 
ful that ye run : 

Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye 
shall glitter in the sun. 

The rainbow cannot shine if the rain 
refuse to fall. 

And the eyes that cannot weep are 
the saddest eyes of all. 

ye tears ! O ye tears ! till I felt you 

on my cheek. 

1 was selfish in my sorrow, I was stub- 

born, I was weak. 



Ye have given me strength to conquer, 
and I stand erect and free, 

And know that 1 am hmuan by the 
Hght of sympathy. 

O ye tears ! O ye tears ! ye reheve me 

of my pain ; 
The barren rocic of i)ride has been 

stricken once again: 
Like tlie rock that Moses smote, amid 

Horeb's burning sand. 
It yields tlie flowing water to make 

gladness in the land. 

There is light upon my path, there is 
svmsiune in my heart. 

And the leaf and fruit of life shall 
not utterly depart; 

Ye restore to me the freshness and 
the bloom of long ago — 

O ye tears ! happy tears ! I am thank- 
ful that ye flow ! 



A QUESTION ANSWERED. 

What to do to make thy fame 
Live beyond thee in the tomb ? 

And thine honorable name 
Shine, a star, tlnough history's 
gloom ? 

Seize the Spirit of thy Time. 

Take the measure of his height, 
Look into his eyes sublime. 

And imbue thee with their light. 

Know his words ere they are spoken, 
And w ith utterance loud and clear, 

Firm, persuasive, and unbroken. 
Breathe them in the people's ear. 

Think whate'er the Spirit thinks. 
Feel thyself whate'er he feels. 

Drink at "fountains where he drinks, 
And reveal what he reveals. 

And whate'erthy medium be. 

Canvas, stone, or printed sheet. 
Fiction, or philosophy, 

Or a balla'l for the street ; — 

Or, perchance, with passion fraught. 
Spoken words, like lightnings 
thrown. 

Tell the people all thy thought, 
And the world shall be thine own! 



EXrUACT FROM 'M HE V ERIE IN 
THE GRASS." 

0]\, beautiful green grass! Earth- 
covering fair! 
What shall be sung of thee, nor bright, 

nor rare, 
INor highly thought of ? Long green 

grass that ^\■aves 
By the wayside, ov<!r the ancient 

graves. 
Or shoulders of the mountain loom- 
ing high, [esty. 
Or skulls of rocks, bald in their maj- 
Except for thee, that in the crevices 
Liv"st on the ninlure of the sun and 

breeze ; 
Adorner of the nude rude breast of 

hills. 
Mantle of meadows, fi'inge of gush- 
ing rills, 
Humblest of all the Ijimible, thou 

shalt be. 
If to none else, exalted unto me. 
And for a time, a type of joy on 

earth — 
Joy unobtrusive, of perennial birth. 
Common as light and air, and wainith 

and rain. 
And all the daily blessings that in vain 
AVoo us to gratitude : the earliest born 
Of all the juicy verdures tliat adorn 
The fruitful bosom of the kindly soil ; 
Pleasant to eyes that ache and limbs 
that toil. 

Lo! as I muse, I see the bristling 

spears 
Cf thy seed-bearing stalks, which 

some, thy peers, [fro 

Lift o'er their fellows, nodding to and 
Their lofty foreheads as the wild 

winds blow. 
And think thy swarming multitudes 

a host. 
Drawn up embattled on their native 

coast. 
And officered for war :— the spearmen 

free 
Raising their weapons, and the mar- 
tial bee 
Blowing his clarion, while some po])- 

py tall 
Displays the blood-red banner over 

all. 



366 



MACKAY. 



Pleased with the thought, I nurse 
it for a while, 

And then dismiss it with a faint half- 
smile. 

And next I fancy thee a multitude. 

Moved by one breath, obedient to the 
mood 

Of one strong thinker — the resistless 
wind. 

That, passing o'er thee, bends thee to 
its mind. 

.See how thy blades, in myriads as 
they grow, 

Turn ever eastward as the west winds 
blow — 

Just as the human crowd is swayed 
and bent, 

By some great preacher, madly elo- 
quent, 

Who moves them at his will, and with 
a breaUi 

Gives them their bias both in life and 
death. 

Or by some wondrous actor, when he 
draws 

All eyes and hearts, amid a hushed 
applause. 

Not to be uttered, lest delight be 
mari-ed ; 

Or, greater still, by hymn of prophet- 
bard, 

AVho moulds the lazy present by his 
rhyme. 

And sings the glories of a future time. 



And ye are happy, green leaves, 

every one. 
Spread in your countless thousands 

to the sun ! 
Unlike mankind, no solitary blade 
Of all your verdure ever disobeyed 
The law of nature : every stalk that 

lifts 
Its head above the mould, enjoys the 

gifts 
Of liberal heaven — the rain, the dew, 

the light; 
And points, though humbly, to the 

Infinite; 
And every leaf, a populous world, 

maintains 
Invisible nations on its wide-stretched 

plains. 



So great is littleness! the mind at 

fault 
Betwixt the peopled leaf and starry 

vault. 
Doubts which is grandest, and, with 

holy awe. 
Adores the God who made them, and 

whose law 
Upholds them in Eternity or Time, 
(Greatest and least, ineffably sublime. 



TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS. 

Tell me, ye winged winds. 

That round my pathway roar. 
Do ye not know some spot 

Where mortals weep no more? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west. 
Where, free from toil and pain, 

The weary soul may rest ? 
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper 

low, 
And sighed for pity as it answered, 
"No." 

Tell me, thou mighty deep, 

Whose billows round me play, 
Know'st thou some favored spot, 

Some island far away. 
Where weary man may find 

The bliss for which he sighs, — 
Where sorrow never lives. 

And friendship never dies ? 
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual 

flow. 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to 
answer, — '* No." 

And thou, serenest moon. 

That, with such lovely face, 
Dost look upon the earth. 

Asleep in night's embrace; 
Tell me, in all thy round 

Hast thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man 

May find a happier lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew 

in woe. 
And a voice, sweet but sad, respond- 
ed, — " No." 



MARVELL— MASSE Y 



mi 



Tell me, my secret soul, 

Oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, 

Is there no resting-place 
From sorrow, sin, and death ? 

Is there no happy spot 
Where mortals may be blest, 



Where grief may find a balm, 
And weariness a rest ? 

Faitli, Hope, and Love, best boons 
to mortals given, 

Waved their bright wings, and whis- 
pered, — " Yes, in heaven." 



Andrew Marvell. 



A DROP OF JJEW. 

See how the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 
Into tiie blowing roses. 
(Yet careless of its mansion new 
For the clear region where 'twas born) 
Eomid in itself incloses. 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple Howerdoes slight, 

Scarce touching where it lies; 
But gazing back upon the skies. 
Shines with a mournful light. 
Like its own tear. 
Because so long divided from the 
sphere. 
Restless it rolls, and unsecure. 
Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exhales it back again. 

So the soul, that drop, that ray. 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day. 
Could it within tlie human flower be 
seen, 



Remembering still its former 

height, 
Shmis the sweet leaves and blos- 
soms green. 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, 

express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a ligure wound. 
Every way it turns away; 
So the world excluding round, 
Y''et receiving in the day. 
Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ! 
How girt and ready to ascend ! 
Moving but on a point below. 
It all about does upward bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis- 
til, 
White and entire, although congealed 

and cliill — 
Congealed on earth, but does, dis- 
solving, run 
Into the glories of th' almighty sun. 



Gerald Massey. 



JERUSALEM THE GOLDEN. 



Jerusalem the Golden ! 

I weary for one gleam 
Of all thy glory folden 

In distance and in dream ! 
My thoughts, like palms in exile. 

Climb up to look and pray 
For a glimpse of thy dear country 

That lies so far away. 



Jerusalem the Golden ! 

Methinks each flower that blows. 
And every bird a-singing 

Of thee, some secret knows; 
I know not what the flowers 

Can feel, or singers see; 
But all these summer raptures 

Seem prophecies of thee. 



368 



MASSE r. 



Jerusalem. the Golden! 

Wlien sunset's in the west, 
It seems the gate of glory, 

Thou city of the blest! 
And midniglii's starry torches 

Tlirougli intermediate gloom 
Are waving with our welcome 

To thy eternal home! 

Jerusalem the (lolden! 

When loftily Ihey sing, 
O'er pain and sorrow olden 

Forever triumphing; 
Lowly may be the portal, 

And dark may be the door, 
The mansion is immortal — 

God's palace for his poor! 

Jerusalem the Golden ! 

There all our birds that flew — 
Our flowers but half unfolden. 

Our pearls that turned to dew, 
And all the glad life-music 

Now heard no longer here. 
Shall come again to greet us 

As we are di'awing near. 

Jerusalem the Golden ! 

I toil on day by day ; 
Heart-sore each night with longing, 

I stretch my hands and pray, 
That mid thy leaves of healing 

My soul may find her nest; 
Where the wicked cease from troub- 
ling, 

The weary are at rest ! 



THE KINGLIEST KINGS. 

Flo ! ye who in the noble work 
Win scorn, as flames draw air. 

And in the way where lions lurk 
(lod's image bravely bear; 

Mo! trouble-tried and torture torn, 

The kingliest kings are crowned with 
thorn. 

Life's gloiy, like the bow in heaven. 
Still springeth from the cloud ; 

And soul ne'er soared the starry 
seven, 
But pain's fire-chariot rode. 



They've battled best who've boldest 

borne ; 
The kingliest kings are crowned with 

thorn. 

The martyr's fire-crown on the brow 

Doth into glory burn ; 
And tears that from Love's torn 
heart flow. 
To pearls of spirit turn. 
Our dearest hopes in pangs are born ; 
The kingliest kings are crowned with 
thorn. 

As beauty in death's cerement 
shrouds. 
And stars bejewel night. 
God's splendors live in dim heart- 
clouds. 
And suffering worketh might. 
The mirkest hour is mother o' morn; 
The kingliest kings are ciowned with 
thorn. 



AND THOU II AST STOLEN A 
JEWEL. 

And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death, 
Shall light thy dark up like a star. 
A beacon kindling from afar 

Our light of love, and fainting faith. 

Through tears it gleams perpetually, 
And glitters through the thickest 

glooms. 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the jasper sea. 

With our best branch in t euderest leaf. 
We've strewn the way ovu' Loril 

doth come ; 
And, ready for the harvest home. 

His reapers bind our ri])est sheaf. 

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled: 
Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
Sang round us a few hoverings — 

Then straightway into glory sped. 

And white-\\inged angels nurture her ; 

With heaven's white radiance robed 
and crowned. 

And all love's purple glory roimd, 
She summers on the hills of myrrh. 



MCCARTHY. 



369 



Through childhood's morning-land, 
serene 
yhe walked betwixt us twain, like 

love ; 
AVhile, in a robe of light above. 
Her better angel walked unseen, — 

Till life's highway broke bleak and 

wild; 

Then, lest her starry garments trail 

In mire, heart bleed, and courage 

fail, 

The angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward 
rolled 
To the great ocean; on whose 

shore 
We wander up and down, to store 
Some treasures of the times of 
old: — 



And aye we seek and hunger on 
For precious pearls antl relics rare. 
Strewn on the sands for us to wear 

At heart for love of her that's gone. 

O weep no more ! there yet is balm 
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed 
liich healing where it nestles — 
spread 

O'er desert pillows some green palm ! 

Strange glory streams through life's 

wild rents; [death 

And through the open door of 

We see the heaven that beckoneth 

To the beloved going hence. 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed; 

The best fruit loads the broken 
bough ; plough. 

And in the wounds our sufferings 
Immortal love sows sovereign seed. 



Denis Florence McCarthy. 



SUMMER LONGINGS. 

An I my heart is weary waiting; 
Waiting for the May. — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn bram- 
bles. 
With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, — 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May, — 
Longing to escape from study. 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belong- 
ing 
To the summer's day. 
Ah! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 

All ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May, — 
Sighing for their sure returning. 
When tln! summer beams are bm-n- 



Hopes and flowei-s that, dead or 
dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 

Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throb- 
bing. 
Throbbing for the May, — 
Throbbing for tlie seaside billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows; 

Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 

Glide the streanis away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throb- 
bing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

AVaiting sad, dejected, weary. 
Waiting for the May: 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings; 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright morn- 
ings,— 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away ; 
Man is ever weary, weary, 
Waiting for the May! 



370 



MIGHELL. 



Nicholas, Michelu 



Persia! time-honored land! who 

looks on thee 
A desert, yet a Paradise, will see, 
Vast chains of hills where not a 

shriih appears, 
Wastes where the dews distil their 

diamond tears ; 
The only living things foul birds of 

prey. 
That whet their beaks, or court tlie 

solar ray, 
And wolves that fill with howUngs 

midnight's vale. 
Turning thecheek of far-off traveller 

pale ; — 
Anon, the ravished eye delighted 

dwells 
On chinar-groves and brightly- 
watered dells. 
Blooming where man and art have 

nothing done. 
Pomegranates hang their rich fruit 

in the sun ; 
Grapes turn to purple many a rock"s 

tall brow. 
And globes of gold adorn the citron's 

bough ; 
Mid rose-trees hid. or perched on 

some high palm. 
The bulbul sings through eve's deli- 
cious calm; 
While girt by planes, or washed by 

cooling streams. 
On some green flat the stately city 

gleams, — 
'Tis as a demon there had cast his 

frown. 
And here an angel breathed a bless- 
ing down; 
As if in nature as the human soul. 
The god of darkness spurned heaven's 

bright control. 
Good struggling hard with Evil's 

withering spell, 
A smiling Eden on the marge of hell. 
Immortal clime! where Zoroaster 

sprung. 
And light oil Persia's earlier history 

flung: 



Let cliarity condemn not Iran's sage, 

Who taught, reformed, and human- 
ized his age. 

In him one great as Mecca's prophet, 
see. 

But oh, more gentle, wise, and pure 
than he. 



ALEXANDER AT PEnSEPOLIS. 

Here, too, came one who bartered 
all for power. 

The dread Napoleon of earth's 
younger hour: 

Ay, the same spot we calmly muse 
on now 

fSaw chiefs and Icings to Alexander 
how ; 

A conqueror, — yes, men praise and 
bend the knee ; 

Who spreads most woe, the greatest 
hero he. 

But lo ! that night on fancy casts its 
gloom, [doom. 

That fearful night of revelry and 

When perished all things costly, 
bright, and fair, 

And left,"as now, these pillars stern 
and bare. 

The feast is spread ; around the mon- 
arch shine 

Those earth-born pomps weak mor- 
tals deem divine; 

High sits he on his tlirone of gems 
and gold. 

Bright-starred and purple robes his 
limbs enfold ; 

No crown adorns his brow, for fes- 
tive hours 

Have wreatlied his head with Bac- 
chus' bloomy flowers ; 

Lamps, hung in silver chains, a soft- 
ened glow 

Shed on the warrior chiefs that group 
below. 

There prince and noble round the 
board are met. 

Who fought those fights embalmed 
in history yet ; 



MICHELL. 



371 



But thoughts of slaughter past, and 
blood-stained fields, 

Mar not the joys that gorgeous ban- 
quet yields; 

Sparkles in cups of gold rich Cyprian 
wine, 

Melts the Greek fig, the grapes of 
Ora shine; 

Pears from fair Bactria vie with Ker- 
nuin's peach, 

And fruit from climes e'en Greeks 
have failed to reach — 

Hot Indian Isles, to ISoythia's moun- 
tain snows, — 

Each luscious orb on plates of crystal 
glows. 

Hark! in the gilded gallery, flute and 
lyre! 

Strains soft as sighs of streaming 
love respire; 

Then harp and sackbut bolder notes 
ring out. 

Like victory's paean o'er some army's 
rout. 

And thus they revel ; mirth and joy 
control 

The sterner thoughts, the high as- 
piring soul ; 

And e'en the slaves, in sumptuous 
garments dressed. 

Forget their toils to see their lords 
so blessed. 



But what young beauty leans be- 
side the king, 

With form so graceful, air so lan- 
guishing '? 

While other maids are glittering dcwTi 
that hall, 

A moon niid earth's sweet stars, she 
dims them all. 

Her mask is off, unveiled her radiant 
head, 

A lovelier veil those flower-bound 
tresses spread ; 

A spangled zone her Grecian robe 
confines. 

Bright on her breast a costly diamond 
shines, 

But oh, more bright, that eye's en- 
trancing ray 

Melts where it falls, and steals the 
soul away ! 



Who looks must look again, and 

sighing own 
Earth boasts, than tyrant Love's, no 

mightier throne : 
Woman was born to vanquish, — he, 

the brave. 
The nation-trampler, bowed, her 

veriest slave; 
Yes, beauteous Thais, with Love's 

flag unfurled, 
Conquered the blood-stained con- 

(lueror of the world ! 



THE I'AllADISE OF VABUL. 

Oil, who C'abul's sweet region may 

behold, 
When spring laughs out, or autumn 

sows her gold. 
The meadows, orchards, streams 

that glide in light. 
Nor deem lost Irem charms again his 

sight; 
That wondrous garden rivalling 

Eden's bloom. 
Too blessed for man to view, this side 

the tomb ? 
Flowers here, of eveiy scent and 

form and dye. 
Lift their bright heads, and laugh 

upon the sky, 
From tiie tall tulip with her rich 

streaked bell. 
Where throned in state. Queen Mab 

is proud to dwell. 
To lowly wind-flowers gaudier plants 

eclipse. |lips. 

And pensile harebells with their dewy 
There turns the heliotrope to court 

the sun, 
And up green stalks the starry jas- 
mines run : 
The hyacinth in tender pink outvies 
Beauty's soft cheek, and violets 

match her eyes ; 
Sweet breathe the henna flowers that 

harem girls 
So love to twine among their glossy 

curls ; 
And here the purple pansy springs to 

birth. 
Like some gay insect rising from the 

earth. 



372 



MICKLE. 



One sheet of bloom the level green- 
sward yields, 

And simple daisies speak of England's 
fields; 

Drawn by sweet odor's spell, in hum- 
ming glee, 

Flits round the gloomy stock, the rob- 
ber-bee. 

While to the gorgeous musk-rose, all 
night long. 

The love-sick bulbul pours his melt- 
ing song; 

Then, too, the fruits through months 
that hang and glow. 

Tempting as those which wrought 
our mother's woe. 

Soft shines the mango on its stem so 
tall, 

Kich gleams beneath, the melon's 
golden ball; 

How feasts the eye upon the bell- 
shaped pear! 

Bright cherries look like corals strung 
in air; 

The purple plum, the grape the hand 
may reach, 



Vie with the downy-skinned and 

blushing peach; 
Though small, its place the luscious 

strawberry claims. 
Mid snowy flowers the radiant orange 

flames ; 
To quench the thirst the cooling 

guava see, 
And ripe pomegranates melting on 

the tree. 
And here, too, England's favorite 

fruit is seen, 
The red-cheeked apple, veiled by 

leaves of green : 
Ah ! at the sight, sweet thoughts of 

home awake, 
And foreign lands are welcomed for 

its sake. 
Thrice genial clime! O favored 

sweet Cabul ! 
Well art thou named the blessed, the 

beautiful ! 
With snow-peaked hills around thee, 

— guarding arms! 
Ah ! would thy sons were worthy of 

thy charms! 



William Julius Mickle. 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ; 
Is this the time to spin a thread, 

AVhen Colin's at the door ? 
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 
For there's nae luck about the house, 

There's nae luck at a' ; 
There's little pleasiu'e in the house 

When our gudeman's awa'. 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop' s-satin gown; 
For I maun tell the baillie's wife 

That Colin's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maim gae on 

My stockin's pearly blue; 



It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 
For he's baitli leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot; 
Gie little Kate her button gown. 

And Jock his Sunday coat; 
And mak' their shoon as black as 
slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw; 
It's a' to please my ain gudeman. 

For he's been long awa'. 

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop 
Been fed this month and mair; 

Mak' haste and thraw their necks 
about. 
That Colin weel may fare; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 
Gar ilka thing look braw, 



MILLER. 



373 



For wha can tell how Colin fared 
When he was far awa' ? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his 
speech. 

His breath like caller air; 
His very foot has music in't 

As he comes up the stair, — 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth I'm like to greet! 



If Colin' s weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave: 
And gin I live to keep him sae 

I'm blest aboon the lave: 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 

In troth i'm like to greet. 
For there's nae luck about the house, 

There's nae luck at a' ; 
There's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman's awa'. 



Abraham Perry Miller. 



[From Consolation. 1 
REFUGE FROM DOUBT. 

LOVING God of Nature! who 

through all 
Hast never yet betrayed me to a 

fall.— 
While following creeds of men I went 

astray. 
And in distressing mazes lost my way ; 
But tm-ning back to Thee, I found 

Thee true. 
And sweet as woman's love, and 

fresh as dew, — 
Henceforth on Thee, and Thee alone 

I rest, 
Nor warring sects shall tear me from 

Thy breast. 
While others doubt and wrangle o'er 

their creeds, 

1 rest in Thee and satisfy my needs. 



[From Consolation.'] 
TURN TO THE HELPER. 

As when a little child returned from 

play, 
Finds the door closed and latched 

across its way. 
Against the door, with infant push 

and strain, 
It gathers all its strength and strives 

in vain! 
Unseen, within, a loving father .stands 
And lifts the iron latch with easy 

hands ; 



Then, as he lightly draws the door 

aside. 
He hides behind it, while with baby 

pride, — 
And face aglow, in struts the little one, 
Flushed and rejoiced to think what 

it has done, — 
So, when men find, across life's rug- 
ged way, 
Strong doors of trouble barred from 

day to day. 
And strive with all their power of 

knees and hands. 
Unseen within the heavenly Father 

stands, 
And lifts each iron latch, while men 

pass thi'ough. 
Flushed and rejoiced to think what 

they can do! 

Turn to the Helper, unto whom thou 
art 

More near and dear than to thy 
mother's heart, — 

Who is more near to thee than is the 
blood 

That warms thy bosom with its pur- 
ple flood — 

Wlio by a word can change the men- 
tal state 

And make a burden light, however 
great ! 

O loving Power! that, dwelling deep 
within. 

Consoles our spirits in their woe and 
sin, — 



MILTON. 



When days were dark and all the 
world went wrong, 

Nor any heart was left for prayer and 
song, — 

When bitter memory, o'er and o'er 
again, 

Eevolved tlie wrongs endnred from 
fellow-men ; 

And showed how hopes decayed and 
bore no fruit, 

And He who placed us here was deaf 
and mute ! — 

If then we turned on God in angry 
wise, 

And scorned his dealings with re- 
proachful eyes 

Questioned his goodness, and in fool- 
ish wrath, 

("ailed hope a lie and ridiculed our 
faith, — 

Did we not find, in such an evil hour, 

That far within us dwelt this loving 
Power ? 

No wrathful God within, to smite us 
down, [frown; 

Or turn his face away with angry 

But in the bitter heart, a smile began. 

Grew, all at once, within, and up- 
ward ran. 

Broke out upon the face — and, for 
awhile. 

Despite all bitterness, we had to 
smile ! 

Because God's spirit that within us 
lay, [away ! 

Simply rose up, and smiled our wrath 



This love endures through all things, 

without end. 
And every soul has one Almighty 

Friend. 
AVhose angels watcli and tend it from 

its birth, 
And heaven becomes the servant of 

the earth ! [move 

Wh'ate'er befall, our spiiits live and 
In one vast ocean of Eternal Love ! 



[From ( 'on.'ii)/a/ion.] 
KEEP FAITH IX LOVE. 

Keep faith in Love, the cure of every 

curse — 
The strange, sweet wonder of the 

universe ! 
God loves a lover, and while time 

shall roll. 
This wonder. Love, shall save the 

human soul. 
Love is the heart's condition: youth 

and age 
Alike are subject to its tender rage: 
Age crowns the head with venerable 

snow, 
But Life and Love forever mated go ; 
Along life's far frontier, the aged 

move, 
One foot beyond, and nothing left 

but Love ! 
And A\hen the soul its mortal fears 

resigns, [shines! 

The perfect world of love aroiuid it 



John Milton. 



ON TIME. 

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out 
thy race, [hours. 

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping 

Whose speed is but the heavy plum- 
met' s x^ace ; 

And glut thyself with what thy womb 
devours. 

Which is no more than what is false 
and vain. 



And merely mortal dross; 

So little is our loss. 

So little is thy gain. 

For when as each thing bad thou 
hast entombed, • 

And last of all thy greedy self con- 
sumed. 

Then long Eternity shall greet our 
bliss 

With an individual kiss; 

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, 



MILTON. 



O/O 



Wlu^n every thing that is sincerely 

good 
An J perfectly divine, 
AVith trutli, and peace, and love, shall 

ever shine 
About the supreme throne 
Of him, to whose happy-making sight 

alone 
When once our heavenly-guided soul 

shall climb, 
Then, all this earthy grossness quit, 
Attired with stars, we shall forever 

sit, 
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, 

and thee, O Time. 



L-ALLEGRO. 

Hp:.\X'E. loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight 
born. 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

"Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, 
and sights unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell. 
Where brooding darkness spreads 
his jealous wings, 
And the night I'aven sings; 

There under ebon shades and low- 
browed rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever 
dwell. 
But come, thou goddess fair and free. 
In Heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the 

spring. 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-Maying, 
There on beds of violets blue. 
And fresh-blown roses washed in 

dew. 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with 

thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, 



Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek. 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides, 
Come, and trip it as you go 
On the light fantastic toe. 
And in thy right hand lead with 

thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And, if 1 give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit nie of thy crew 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free; 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies. 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow, 
Tlu'ough the sweet-briar, or the vine 
Or the twisted eglantine; 
AVhile the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 
And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft listening how the hounds and 

horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
From the side of some hoar lull. 
Through the high wood echoing 

shrill : 
Some time walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate. 
Where the great sun begins his state. 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand tiveries 

dight; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new 

pleasures 
Whilst the landskip round it meas- 
ures ; 
Russet lawns and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
Moimtains on wliose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest, 



376 



MILTON. 



Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes. 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where (Jorydon and Thyrsis met, 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes. 
Which the neat-handed Phyllis 

dresses : 
And then in haste her bower, she 

leaves. 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead. 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes, with secure delight. 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid 
Dancing in the che(iuered shade; 
And young and old come forth to 

play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the livelong daylight fail; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
AVith stories told of many a feut. 
How Fairy Mab the junkets eat; 
She was pinched and pulled, she 

said. 
And he by friar's lanthorn led; 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-iwwl duly set. 
When in one night, ere glimpse of 

morn. 
His shadowy flail had threshed the 

corn, 
That ten day-laborers could not end; 
Then lies him down the lubber 

fiend, 
And, stretched out all the chimney's 

length. 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they 

creep. 
By whispering winds soon lulled 

asleep. 
Towered cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men. 



Where throngs of knights and barons 

bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs 

hold. 
With store of ladies, whose bright 

eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all com- 
mend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, Avith taper clear. 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With masque and antique pageantry. 
Such sights as youthful poets dream, 
On summer- eves, by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancv's 

child. 
Warble his native Avood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the melting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed, and giddy cun- 
ning. 
The melting voice through mazes 

running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his 

head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the 

ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Em-ydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PEXSKUDSO. 

Hence, vain deluding joys. 

The brood of folly, without father 

bred ! 
How little you bestead. 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your 
toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 



MILTON. 



377 



And fancies fond with gaudy shapes 

possess, 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the 

sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams. 
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' 

train. 
But hail, thou goddess, sage and 

holy! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too liright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's 

hue : 
Dlack, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might be- 
seem, 
Or that starred Ethiop queen, that 

strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their powers 

offended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypress lawn. 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the 

skies. 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 
There, held in holy passion still. 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast, 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast; 
And join with thee calm peace and 

quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth 

diet, 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 



And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleas- 
ure; 
But first and chief est with thee bring. 
Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 
The cherub Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song. 
In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon 

yoke. 
Gently o'er the accustomed oak; 
Sweet bird, that shunn"st the noise of 

folly. 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chantress, oft the woods 

among, 
I woo to hear thy even-song; 
And missing thee, I walk imseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
To behold the wandering moon. 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heavens' wide pathless 

Way; 
And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft on a plat of rising ground 
I hear the far-off curfew sound. 
Over some wide-watered shore. 
Swinging slow with sullen roar. 
Or if tlie air will not permit. 
Some still, removed place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the 

room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 
Far from all resort of mirth. 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen on some high lonely tower. 
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
With thrice-great Hermes, or mi- 

sphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions 

hold Isook 

The immortal mind, that hath for- 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook; 
And of those demons that are fotmd 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 



378 



MIL TON. 



Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 

Sometime let goi-geous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age, 
p]nnobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, O sad virgin! that thy power 
flight raise Musa'us from his bower. 
Or bid the soul of ( )rpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made hell grant what love did 

seek ; 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That owned the virtuous ring and 

glass ; 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
Of toiu-neys and of trophies hung; 
Of forests and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the 

ear. 
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale 

career, 
'Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not tricked and frounced as she was 

wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or ushered with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
AVith minute drops from off the 

eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, nie, goddess, bring 
To archeil walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan 

loves, 
Of pine or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe with heaved 

stroke 
Was never heard, the Nymphs to 

daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed 

liaunt. 



There in close covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye. 
While the bee with honeyed thigh. 
That at her flowery work doth sing. 
And the waters murmuring. 
With such consort as they keep. 
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep: 
And let some strange mysterious 

dream 
Wave at his wings in airy stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed. 
Softly on my eyelids laid : 
And as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath. 
Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 
Or the unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high embowed roof, 
With antic pillais massy proof. 
And storied windows richly dight. 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow. 
To the full-voiced choir below. 
In service high, and anthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through 

mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine 
eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and lightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew. 
And every herb that sips the dew; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



soxG OX .VA V Afoix\y/\n. 

Now the bright morning star, day's 

harbinger. 
Conies dancing from the east, and 

leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her 

green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale 

primrose. 



MIL TON. 



379 



Hail, bounteous May, that dost in- 
spire 

Mirth antl youth and warm desire; 

Woods and groves are of thy dress- 
ing, 

Hill and dale doth boast thy bless- 
ing. 

Thus we salute thee with our early 
song. 

And welcome thee, and wish thee 
long. 



staxzas from "hymn on the 
nativity:' 

It was the winter wild. 
While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude man- 
ger lies; 
Nature in awe to Him 
Had doffed her gaudy trim, 

AYith her great Master so to sympa- 
thize: 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty 
paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with inno- 
cent snow. 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly veil of maiden white to 
throw. 

Confounded that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon her foul 
deformities. 

But He, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; 
She, crowned with olives green, 

came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere 
His ready harbinger, 
AVith turtle wing the amorous 

clouds dividing. 
And, waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace through 

sea and land. 

No war, or battle's sound. 
Was heard tlie world aroimd: 



The idle spear and shield were high 
up lumg. 
The hooked chariot stood. 
Unstained with hostile blood. 
The trumpet spake not to the 
armed throng, 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sover- 
eign Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night. 
Wherein the Prince of light 
His reign of peace upon the earth 

began : 
The winds with wonder whist 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 
Whispering new joys to the mild 

ocean. 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 
While birds of calm sit brooding on 

the charmed wave. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is 

spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark 

world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death 

to hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though 

my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and 

present 
My true accoimt, lest he retui-ning 

chide ; 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light 

denied ? ' ' 
I fondly ask : but Patience, to pre- 
vent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God 

doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; 

who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him 

best: his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding 

speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean with- 
out rest; 
They also serve who only stand and 

wait.'' 



380 



MILTON. 



ON REACHING TWENTY-THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the svibtle 

thief of youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three-and- 

twentieth year! 
My hasting days fly on with full 

career. 
But my late spring no bud or blos- 
som shcweth. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive 

the truth, 
That I to manhood am arrived so 

near, 
And inward ripeness doth much less 

appear, 
That some more timely - happy 

spirits indu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or 

slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure 

even 
'J'o that same lot, however mean or 

high. 
Toward which Time leads me, and 

the Mill of Heaven; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-master's 

eye. 



TO A VinTUOUS YOUNG LADY. 

Lady, that in the prime of earliest 

youth 
Wisely hast shunned the broad 

way and the green. 
And with those few art eminently 

seen. 
That labor up the hill of heavenly 

truth, 
The better part with JSIary and with 

Paith 
Chosen thou hast; and they that 

overween, 
And at thy growing virtues fret 

their spleen. 
No anger find in thee, but pity and 

ruth. 
Thy care is fixed, and zealously at- 
tends 
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds 

of light, 



And hope that reaps not shame. 

Therefore be sui-e 
Thou, when the bridegroom with his 

feastful friends 
Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of 

night, 
Hast gained thy entrance, virgin 

wise and pure. 



IFrom, Paradise Lost.l 
THE BOWER OF ADAM AND EVE. 

The roof 
Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, 
Laurel and myrtle, and what higher 

grew 
Of firm and fragrant leaf : on either 

side 
Acanthus, and each odorous l)ushy 

shrub 
Fenced up the verdant wall; each 

beauteous flower. 
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine 
Reared high their flourished heads 

between, and Avrought 
Mosaic : under foot the violet, 
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
Broidered the grovmd, more colored 

than with stone 
Of costliest emblem. Other creature 

here. 
Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst 

enter none : 
Such was their awe of man. In 

shadier bower 
More sacred and sequestered, though 

but feigned, 
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor 

nymph 
Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close 

recess. 
With flowers, garlands, and sweet- 
smelling herbs, 
Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial 

bed. 
And heavenly choirs the Ilymensean 

sung. 
What day the genial angel to our sire 
Brought her in naked beauty more 

adorned. 
More lovely than Pandora, whom the 

gods 



MOIR. 



381 



Endowed with all their gifts : and oh ! 
too like 

In sad event, when to the unwiser son 

Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she 
ensnared 

Mankind with her fair looks, to be 
avenged 

On him who had stole Jove's authen- 
tic fire. 



[From Paradise Lost.] 
APOSTROPHE TO LIGHT. 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven 
first-born. 

Or of the Eternal, co-eternal beam, 

May 1 express thee unblamed ? since 
God is Light, 

And never but in imapproached 
light 

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in 
thee, [create. 

Bright ettluence of bright essence in- 

Or hearest thou rather, pure ethsreal 
stream. 

Whose fountain who shall tell ? Be- 
fore the sua. 

Before the heavens thou wert, and at 
the voice [vest 

Of God, as with a mantle, didst in- 

The rising world of waters dark and 
deep. 

Won from the void and formless in- 
finite. 

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though 
long detained 



In that obscure sojourn, while in 
my flight 

Through utter and through middle 
darkness borne 

With other notes than, to the Orphe- 
an lyre, 

I sung of Chaos and eternal night. 

Taught by the heavenly Muse to ven- 
ture down 

The dark descent, and up to re- 
ascend. 

Though hard and rare: thee I revisit 
safe. 

And feel thy sovereign vital lamp: 
but thou 

Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in 
vain 

To find thy piercing ray, and find 
no dawn; 

So thick a drop sei'ene hath quenched 
their orbs. 

Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not 
the more 

Cease I to wander where the Muses 
haunt 

Clear spring, or shady grove, or sun- 
ny hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song; 
but chief 

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks 
beneath, 

That wash thy hallowed feet, and 
warbling flow. 

Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget 

Those other two equalled with me in 
fate, [nown. 

So were I equalled with them in re- 
Blind Thamyris and blind Majonides. 



David Macbeth Moir. 



STANZAS FROM "CAS A WAPPY." * 

TiiY bright brief day knew no de- 
cline — 
'T was cloudless joy; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine. 

Beloved boy! [gay; 

This morn beheld thee blithe and 
That found thee prostrate in decay: 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
Casa Wappy ! 

* The pet name 



Gem of our heart, our household pride. 

Earth's undefiled. 
Could love have saved, thou hadst 
not died. 
Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should 

see 
Thee mourn for ns, not us for thee, 

Casa Wappy ! 
of Moir's son. 



Methinks thou smil'st before me 
now, 
With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full 
brow 
In buoyant health ; 
I see thine eyes' deep violet light, 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed 

bright. 
Thy clasping arms so round and 
white, 

Casa AYappy! 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat, thy bow, 
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and 
ball. 
But M'hei-e art thou ? 
A corner holds thine empty chair; 
Thy i:)laythings, idly scattered there. 
But speak to us of our despair, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Even to the last, thy every word — 

To glad — to grieve — 
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 

On summer's eve; 
In outward beauty undecayed. 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
And, like the rainbow, thou didst 
fade, 

Casa Wappy! 

We mourn for thee, when blind, 
blank night 
The chamber fills; 
We pine for thee, when morn's first 
light 
Reddens the hills; 



The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All — to the wall-tiower and wild- 
pea — 
Are changed; we saw the world 
through thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

And though, perchance, a smile may 

gleam 
Of casual mirth. 
It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 

An inward birth ; 
We miss thy small step on the stair ; — 
We miss thee at thine evening 

prayer : 
All day we miss thee — everywhere — 

Casa AVappy! 

Snows mufHed earth when thou didst 
go, 
In life's spring bloom. 
Down to the appointed house below — 

The silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree. 
The cuckoo, and the busy bee. 
Return — but with them bring not 
thee, 

Casa AA^appy ! 



Farewell then — for a while fare- 
well — 
Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell. 

Thus torn apart. 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: 
And, dark howe'er life's night may 

be, 
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 



James Montgomery. 



LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF 
IIOMF. 

There is a land, of every land the 
pride, 
Beloved by heaven, o'er all the world 
beside; 



AA'here brighter suns dispense serener 

light, 
And milder moons emparadise the 

night: 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age and love-exalted 

youth : 



The wandering mariner, whose eye 

explores 
The wealthiest Isles, the most en- 
chanting shores. 
Views not a realm so boimtiful and 

fair. 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; 
In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles 

to that x)ole ; 
For in this land of heaven's peculiar 

grace. 
The heritage of nature's noblest race. 
There is a spot of earth supremely 

blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the 

rest : 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts 

aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and 

pride, 
AVhile in his softened looks benignly 

blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, 

father, friend: 
Here woman reigns; the mother, 

daughter, wife, 
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow 

way of life ; 
In the clear heaven of her delightful 

eye, 
An angel-guard of loves and graces 

lie; 
Around her knees domestic duties 

meet, 
.Vnd fireside pleasures gambol at her 

feet. 
" Where shall that htud, ihat sjxjt of 

earth be found ? " 
Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look 

around ; 
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy foot- 
steps roam. 
That land thy country, and that 

spot THY home!" 



PHA YEli. 

Phayer is the soul's sincere desire 

Uttered or unexpressed ; 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast. 



Prayer is the burden of a sigh 

The falling of a tear; 
The upward glancing of an eye, 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can tiy; 
Prayer the sublimest strains that 
reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 

The Christian's native air; 
His watchword at the gates of death : 

He enters heaven by pi-ayer. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
Keturning from his ways; 

While angels in their songs rejoice, 
And say. '" Behold, he prays!" 

The saints in prayer appear as one. 
In word, and deed, and mind, 

When with the Father and his Son 
Their fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made on earth alone ; 

The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
And Jesus, on the eternal throne. 

For sinners intercedes. 

O Thou, by ■whom we come to God. 

The Life, the Truth, the Way. 
The path of prayer Thyself hath 
trod ; 

Lord, teach us how to pray! 



THE COMMON LOT. 

Once, in the flight of ages past, 
There lived a man ; and who was 
he? 

Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

L^nknown the region of his birth. 
The land in which he died un- 
known : 
His name has perished from the 
earth. 
This truth survives alone : 



384 



MONTGOMERY. 



That joy, and grief, and hope, and 
fear, 

Alternate triumphed in his breast; 
His bliss and wo — a smile, a tear! 

Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse, the languid 
limb. 

The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 
We know that these were felt by him, 

For these are felt by all. 

He suffered — but his pangs are o'er; 

Enjoyed — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends — his friends are now no 
more ; 

And foes — his foes are dead. 

He loved — but whom he loved the 
grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb: 
Oh, she was fair! but naught could 
save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen : 
Encountered all that troubles thee ; 

He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
He is — what thou shall be. 

The rolling seasons — day and night, 
Sun, moon, and stars, the eaith and 
main, 

Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his 
eye [threw, 

That once their shades and glory 
Have left in yonder silent sky 

No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race. 
Their ruins, since the world began. 

Of him afford no other trace 
Than this — there lived a man ! 



ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. 

Higher, higher will we climb. 
Up to the mount of glory, 

That our names may live through 
time 
In our country's story: 



Happy when her welfare calls. 
He who conquers, he who falls. 

Deeper, deeper, let us toil 
In the mines of knowledge : 

Nature's wealth and learning's spoil 
Win from school and college; 

Delve we there for richer gems 

Than the stars of diadems. 

Onward, onward may we press 
Through the path of duty; 

Virtue is true happiness. 
Excellence, true beauty. 

Minds are of celestial birth; 

Make we then a heaven of earth. 

Closer, closer let us knit 
Hearts and hands together, 

Where our fireside comforts sit 
In the wildest weather; 

Oh ! they wander wide who roam. 

For the joys of life, from home. 



FRIEND AFTER FRIEND DE- 
PARTS. 

Friend after friend departs; 

Who liath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts 

That finds not here an end : 
Were this frail world our final rest. 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond this flight of time — 
Beyond the reign of death, — 

There surely is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath; 

Nor life's affections transient fire. 

Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 

There is a world above 
Where parting is unknown: 

A long eternity of love, 
Formed for the good alone : 

And faith beholds the dying, here. 

Translated to that glorious sphere I 

Thus star by star declines. 

Till all are past away, 
As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide' themselves in heaven's own 
li-ht. 



MOORE. 



385 



FOR EVEIl WITH THE LOUD. 

" For ever with the I.ord! " 

Allien! so let it be: 
Life from the dead is in that word : 

"T is immortahty I 

My Father's house on high, 
Home of my soul! how near, 

At times, to faith's aspiring eye, 
Thy golden gates appear! 

" For ever with the Lord ! '' 
Father, if 't is Thy will. 

The promise of Thy gracious word, 
Even here to me fulHl. 



Be Thou at my right hand : 

So shall i never fail; 
Uphold Thou me and 1 shall stand ; 

Help, and 1 shall prevail. 

.So, when my latest breath 
Shall rend the veil in twain. 

By death I shall escape from death. 
And life eternal gain. 



Knowing "as I am known," 
How shall I love that word, 

And oft repeat before the throne, 
"For ever with the Lord." 



Thomas Moore. 



[From Lalla IiOoIcU.] 

ES Til AX G EMEXT THE OUGH 
TIUFLES. 

Ai.As — how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts tliat love ! 
Hearts that the world in vain had 

tried 
And sorro^\' but more closely tied ; 
That stood the storm, when waves 

were rough. 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off. 
Like ships, that have gone down at 

sea, 
AVhen heaven was all tranquillity! 
A something light as air — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken — 
Oh! love that tempests never shook, 
A breath, a touch like this hath 
shaken. 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words be- 
gin; 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said; 
Till fast declining, one by one. 
The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, — or like the 
stream, 



That smiling left the mountain's 

brow, 
• As though its waters ne'er could 

sever. 
Yet e'er it reached the plain below. 
Breaks into floods that part fore\er. 

O you, that have the charge of love. 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound ! 
As in the fields of bliss above 

He sits, with flowerets fettered 
round : 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Xor ever let him use his wings 
For even an hour, a minute's flight 
Will rob the plumes of half "their 

light. 
Like that celestial bird, — whose nest 

Is found beneath far eastern skies. 
Whose wings, though radiant when 
at rest. 

Lose all their glorv when he flies. 



[From Latin liool:h.'\ 

BECOGX/T/OX OF A COXGEXLIL 
SPIN J T. 

Om ! there are looks and tones that 

dart 
An instant sunshine through the 

lieart, — 



m 



38(3 



MO QBE. 



As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it tlirougli lite had 
souglit ; 

As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before us then. 

So came thy every glance and tone, 
When tirst on me they breathed and 

shone 
New, as if brought from other 

spheres. 
Yet welcome as if loved for years ! 



THE BIRD LET LOOSE. 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies. 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne"er stoops to earth her wing, nor 
flies 
\Vhere idle warblers roam ; « 

But high she slioots through air and 
Tight, 
Above all low delay. 
Where nothing earthly bounds her 
flight. 
Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God, from every care. 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, tlirough Virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee ! 
No sin to cloud — no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way; 

Thy freedom in her wings! 



OFT IN THE STILLY MIUMT. 

Oft in the stilly night. 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond memory brings the light 
Of other days around me: 

The smiles, the tears. 

Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken. 



Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad memory brings the light 

Of other days around me. 

When 1 remember all 

The friends so linked together 
I've seen around me fall. 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed. 
Thus in the stilly night, 
Ere slumber's chain has bountl 
me, 
Sad memory brings the light 
Of other davs around me. 



O TIIOU WHO DRV ST THE MOClt.\- 
EKS TEAR. 

O THOU who dry'st the mourner's 
tear! 
How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee. 
The friends, who in our sunshine 
live. 
When winter comes, are flown : 
And he, who has but tears to give. 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken 
heart, 
Which, like the plants that tin ow 
Their fragrance from the wounded 
part. 
Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or 
cheers. 
And e'en the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 

Is dinnned and vanished too! 
Oh! who would bear life's stormy 
doom. 
Did not Thy wing of love 
("ome, brightly wafting through the 
gloom 
Our peace-branch from above? 



MOORE. 



387 



Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows 
bright 

With more than rapture's ray; 
As darkness shows us worlds of liglit 

We never saw by day I 



/ SAW FROM THE UEACH. 



I SAW from the beacli, when the 
morning was shining, 
A Iiark o'ertlie waters move glori- 
ously on; 
I oamc when the sun o'er that beach 
was declining. 
The bark was still there, but the 
waters were gone. 

And such is the fate of our life's 
early promise. 
So passing tlie spring-tide of joy 
we liave known ; 
Each wave that we danced on at 
morning, ebbs from us. 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak 
shore alone. 

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely 
adorning 
The close of our day, the calm eve 
of our night : — 
Give me back, give me back the wild 
freshness of morning. 
Her clouds and her tears are wortli 
evening's best light. 



Oh. 



that 



who would not welcome 
moment's returning. 
When passion first waked a new 
life through his frame ? 
And his soul, — like the wood tliat 
grows precious in burning; 
Gave out all its sweets to love's ex- 
quisite flame I 



COME, YE DISCOXSOLATE. 

T'oME, ye disconsolate, where'er you 
languish. 
Come, at the shrine of God fervent- 
ly kneel ; 
Her'^ bring your wounded hearts, 
here tell your anguish — 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven 
cannot heal. 



Joy of the desolate, light of the stray- 
ing, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless 
and pure. 
Here speaks the Comforter, in God's 
name saying, 
"Eartli has no sorrow that Heaven 
cannot cure." 

Go, ask the infidel what boon he 
brings us, 
^Miat charm for aching hearts he 
can reveal. 
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope 
sings to us — 
"Eartli has no sorrow that God 
cannot heal." 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells! those evening 

bells! 
How many a tale their music tells. 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet 

time 
When last T heard their soothing 

chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay. 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears no more those evening 
bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone, — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
While other bards shall walk these 

dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening 

beUs. 



THOU ART,0 GOD. 

TiioiT art, O God! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see; 
Its glow by day, its smile by night. 
Are but reflections caught from 
Thee. 
Where'er we turn Thy glories shine. 
And all things fair and bright are 
Thine. 



388 



MORRIS. 



When day, with farewell beam, de- 
lays 
Among the opening clouds of even, 
And we can almost think we gaze 

Through golden vistas into heaven ; 
Those hues, that make the sun's de- 
cline 
So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 

AVhen night, with wings of starry 

gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and 

skies. 
Like some dark, beauteous bird, 

whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered 

eyes; — 
That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 
So grand, so countless, Lord! are 

Thine. 

When youthful spring around us 

breathes, 
Thy spirit warms her fragrant 

sigh ; 
And every flower the summer 

wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
Where'er we turn Thy glories shine. 
And all things fair and bright are 

Thine. 



AS SLOW oun SHIP. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was cleaving, 



Her trembling iiennant still looked 
back 

To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us; 
So tiu'n our hearts, where'er we rove, 

To those we've left behind us! 

When round the bowl, of vanished 
years 

We talk, with joyous seeming. — 
With smiles, that might as well be 
tears. 

So faint, so sad their beaming: 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us. 
Oh, sweet's the cup that cii'cles then 

To those Ave' ve left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and 
sweet. 

And naught but love is wanting; 
We tliink how great had been our 
bliss. 

If heaven had but assigned us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

AVith some we've left behind us! 

As travellers oft look back, at eve, 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consigned us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy tliat's left behind us. 



George P. Morris. 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE I 



Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough : 
In youth it sheltered me 

And I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefatlier's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
Tliere, woodman, let it stand. 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea. 

And wouldst thou hew it down! 
Woodman, forbear tliy stroke! 

f'ut not its earth-bound ties; ' 
Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies. 



MORRIS. 



389 



V\'hen but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy, 

Here, too, my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father press'd my hand: 
Forgive this foolish tear, — 

But let that old oak stand ! 



My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend I 
Here shall the wild-bird sing; 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave I 

And, woodman, leave that spot; 
While I've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



William Morris. 



[From the Earthly Paradise.'] 
FEBRUARY. 

Noox, — and the northwest sweeps 

the empty road. 
The rain-washed fields from hedge 

to hedge are bare ; 
Beneath the leafless elms some hind's 

abode 
Looks small and void, and no smoke 

meets the air 
From its poor hearth : one lonely rook 

doth dare 
The gale, and beats about the unseen 

corn. 
Then turns, and whirling down the 

wind is borne. 

Shall it not hap that on some dawn 

of May 
Thou shalt awake, and, thinking of 

days dead, 
See nothing clear but this same dreary 

day, 
Of all the days tliat have passed o'er 

thine head '? 
Shalt thou not wonder, looking from 

thy bed, 
Through green leaves on the windless 

east a-flre. 
That this day, too, thine heart doth 

still desire. 

Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth 

yet. 

The useless hope, the useless craving 
pain. 

That made thy face, that lonely noon- 
tide, wet 



With more than beating of the chilly 
rain ? 

Shalt thou not hope for joy new-born 
again, 

Since no grief ever born can ever die 

Through changeless change of sea- 
sons passing by ? 



[Frorn the Earthhj Paradise.'] 
MARCH. 

Slayer of winter, art thou here 

again '? 
O welcome, thou that bring'st the 

summer nigh ! 
The bitter wind makes not thy vic- 
tory vain, 
Xor will we mock thee for thy faint 

blue sky. 
Welcome, O March! whose kindly 

days and dry 
Make April ready for the throstle's 

song, 
Thou first redresser of the winter's 

wrong ! 

Yea, welcome, March! and though I 

die ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee 

praise, (time 

Striving to swell the burden of the 
That even now I hear thy l)rown 

birds raise, 
Unmindful of the past or coming 

days ; [gun ! 

Who sing, " O joy! a new year is be- 
What hai)piness to look upon the 

sun! " 



390 



MORRIS. 



Oh, what begetteth all this storm of 
bliss, 

Ikit Death himself, who, crying sol- 
emnly, 

Even from the heart of sweet forget- 
fulness, 

Bids us, "Rejoice! lest pleasm-eless 
ye die. 

Within a little time must ye go by. 

Stretch fortli your open hands, and, 
wliile ye live. 

Take all the gifts that Death and 
Life may give ?" 



[From the Earthly Paradise.] 

A PHIL. 

O FAIR midspring, besung so oft and 

oft, 
How can I j)raise thy loveliness 

enow ? 
Thy sun that burns not and thy 

breezes soft 
That o'er the blossoms of the orchard 

blow. 
The thousand things that 'neath the 

young leaves grow. 
The hopes and chances of the grow- 
ing year. 
Winter forgotten long and summer 

near. [rose. 

When summer brings the lily and the 
.She brings no fear; her very death 

she brings 
Hid in her anxious heart, the forge 

of woes ; 
And dull with fear, no more the 

mavis sings. 
But thou! thou diest not, but thy 

fresh life clings 
About the fainting autumn's sweet 

decay, 
When in the earth the hopeful seed 

they lay. 

Ah! life of all tlie year, why yet do I, 
Amid thy snowy blossoms' fragrant 

drift. 
Still long for that which never draw- 

eth nigh. 
Striving my pleasure from my pain 

to sift, 



Some weight from off my fluttering 

mirth to lift ? 
— Now when far bells are I'inging, 

" Come again, 
Come back, past years ! why will ye 

pass in vain ? " 



[From the Earth!// Paradise.] 
DECEMBER. 

Dead lonely night, and all streets 

quiet now, 
Thin o'er the moon the hindmost 

cloud swims past 
Of that great rack that brought us up 

the snow ; 
On earth, strange shado\\s o'er the 

snow are cast ; 
Pale stars, bright moon, swift cloud, 

make heaven so vast. 
That earth, left silent by the wind of 

night, 
Seems slirunken 'neath the gray un- 
measured height. 

Ah ! through the hush the looked-for 

midnight clangs ! 
And then, e'en while its last stroke's 

solemn drone 
In the cold air by unlit windows 

hangs. 
Out bi'eak the bells above the year 

foredone. 
Change, kindness lost, love left im- 

loved alone ; 
Till their despairing sweetness makes 

thee deem 
Thou once wert loved, if but amidst 

a dream. 

[love. 
Oh, thou who clingest still to life and 
Though naught of good, no God thou 

mayst discern. 
Though naught that is, thine utmost 

woe can move, 
Though no soul knows wherewith 

thine heart doth yearn. 
Yet, since thy weary lips no curse 

can learn, [away. 

Cast no least thing thou lovedst once 
Since yet, perchance, thine eyes shall 

see the day. 



MOTHERWELL. 



391 



William Motherwell. 



LAST VERSES. 

[Given to a Friend a day or two before the 
Writer's Death.] 

When I beneath the cold red earth 
am sleeping. 
Life's fever o'er. 
Will there for me be any bright eye 
weeping 

That I'm no more? 
Will there be any heart still memory 
keeping 

Of heretofore ? 

When the great winds through leaf- 
less forests rushing 
Sad music make; 
When the swollen streams, o'er crag 
and gully gushing, 
Like fvdl hearts break, — 
\Vill there then one, whose heart 
despair is crushing. 

Mourn for my sake ? ^ 

When the bright sim upon that spot 
is shining, 
AVith purest ray. 
And the small tlowers, their buds and 
blossoms twining, 
Burst through that clay, — 
Will there be one still on that spot 
repining 

Lost hopes all day ".' 

When no star twinkles with its eye, 
of glory 

On that loAV mound. 
And wintry storms have, with their 
ruins hoary, 

Its loneness crowned. — 
Will there be then one, versed in 
misery's story. 
Pacing it round ? 

It may be so, — but this is selfish 
sorrow 

To ask such meed , — 
A weakness and a wickedness to 
borrow. 

From hearts that bleed. 
The wailings of to-day for what to- 
morrow 
Shall never need. 



Lay me then gently in nry narrow 
dwelling, 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with 
grief be swelling, 
Let no tear start: 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long 
been knelling, — 
"Sad one, depart!" 



.1/1' HE ID IS LIKE TO RENT), 
WILLIE. 

My held is like to rend, Willie. 

My heart is like to bi'eak; 
I'm wearin' off my feet, Willie, 

I'm dyin' for your sake! 
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 

Your hand on my briest-bane, — 
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 

When I am dead and gane ! 

It's vain to comfort me, Willie, 

Sair grief maun ha"e its will ; 
But let me rest upon your briest 

To sab and greet my fill. 
Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed l)y your hair. 
And look into the face. AViilie, 

I never sail see mair! 

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 

For the last time in my life, — 
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie! 

A mither, yet nae wife. 
Ay, press your hand upon my heart 

And press it mair and mail-; 
Or it will burst the silken twine. 

Sae Strang is its despair! 

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met, — 
O, wae's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
O wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae. — 
And wae's me for the destinie 

That gart me hive thee sae ! 



892 



MOTHERWELL. 



O, dinna mind my words, Willie, 

I downa seek to blame : 
But (), it's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame! 
Hot tears are hailin" ower your 
cheek. 

And hailin' ower your chin : 
AVhy weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow ami tor sin? 



I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' 1 see, 
I cannot live as I ha'e lived. 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, AVillie, 

The heart that still is thine, 
And kiss ance mair the white, white 
cheek 

Ye said was red langsyue. 

A stoun' gaes through my held, Wil- 
lie, 

A sair stoim' through my heart; 
Oh, haud me up and let me kiss 

Thy bro^^■ ere we two pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon 
kirk-yard 

.Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The laverock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our held. 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid; 
And this green turf we're sittin' 
on, 

Wi' dew-drops shinunerin' sheen, 
AVill hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 



But oh ! remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be; 
And oh! think on the leal, leal heart. 

That ne'er lu\it ane but thee! 
And oh! think on the cauld, cauld 
mools 

That file my yellow hair. 
That kiss the clieek, and kiss the 
chin 

Ye never shall kiss mair! 



THE CAVALIETrS SONG. 

A STEED, — a steed of matchless 
speed ! 

A sword of metal keen ! 
All else to noble hearts is di-oss. 

All else on earth is mean. 
The neighing of the war-horse proud, 

The rolling of the drum. 
The clangor of the trumpet loud, 

Be sounds from heaven that come ; 
And oh! the thundering press of 
knights, 

Whenas their war-cries swell. 
May tole from lieaven an angel bright. 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mount! then mount! brave 
gallants all. 

And don your helms amain : 
Death's couriers, fame and honor, 
call 

Us to the field again. 
No shrewish tear shall fill our eye 

When the sworil-hilt's in our hand: 
HeaiVwhole, we'll part, and no whit 
sigh 

For the fairest of the land ; 
Let piping swain and craven wight 

Thus weep, and puling cry. 
Our business is like men to fight; 

And hero-like to die! 



JEANIE MOJUx'LSOaV. 

I'a'e wandered east, I've wandered 
west. 

Through mony a weary way: 
But never, never can forget 

'J'lie luve o' life's young day! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel I)e black gin Yule; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cool. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison. 
The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fiing their shadows ower my 
path. 
And blind my een with tears: 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut 
tears. 
And sair and sick I i)ine. 



MOTHERWELL. 



393 



As ineinory idly summons up 
The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'T was tlien we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'T was then we twa did part; 
Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at 
scule, 
Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'Twas tlien we sat on ae laigh 
bink 
To leu- ilk itlier lear; 
And tones and looks and smiles were 
shed, 
Remeiiibered evermair. 

I M onder. Jeanie, aften yet. 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek toucliin' cheek, loot" locked in 
loof, 

Wliat our wee Iieads could think ? 
When baith bent down ower ae braid 
page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

()h, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
When'er the scule-weans laughin' 
said. 

We cleeked thegither hame '? 
And mind ye o' the Satiu'days 

(The schule then skail't at noon) 
Wlien we ran otT to speel tlie 
braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart tlows like a sea. 
As ane. by ane the thochts rush 
back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
Oh, mornin" life! oh moriiin' love! 

Oh, lichtsome days and lang! 
When hinnied hopes around our 
hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang I 

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
The deavin', dinsome toun, 

To wander by the green burnside. 
And hear its waters croon ? 



The sinnner leaves hung o'er our 
heads. 

The tiowers burst round our feet, 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood. 

The burn sang to the trees. 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baitli 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trickle down your cheek. 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony pow er to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time. 

When hearts were fresh and young. 
When freely gushed all feelin's forth, 

Unsyllabled, imsung! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I liae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me ! 
O, tell me gin their nuisic fills 

Thine ear as it does mine! 
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne! 

I've wandered east, I've wandered 
west, 

I've borne a weary lot; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this 
heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins. 

The luve o' life's young day, 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue; 
Hut I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O" bygane days and me ! 



394 



NAIEN. 



THEY COME.' THE MERRY SUMMER MOSTIIS. 

'rHF:Y come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers; 

'lliey come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers, 

I'p, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside; 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide; 

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand ; 

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously ; 

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee: 

And mark how with thine own thin locks — they now are silvery gray- 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, " Be gay!" 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky, 

I>ut hath its own winged mariners to give it melody: 

Tliou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; 

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth, 

('an make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. 

Hut soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, — from yonder wood it came! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; — 
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind. 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; 
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art; 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heait. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day. 
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy 
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now — I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think 
That each puiv joy-fount, loved of yore. I yet delight to drink: — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky. 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, 
ril bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that hath waxed old I 



Lady Caroline Nairn. 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 



I'm wearin' awa", Jean, 
Like snaw-wreaths in tliaw, Jean; 
I'm wearin' awa' 
To the Land o' the Leal. 



There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; 
There's neither caidd nor care, Jean, 
The day's aye fair 

r the Land o" the Leal. 



( )ur bonny bairn's there, Jean: 
iSlie was baith gude and fair, Jean ; 
And, oh! we grudged her sair 

To the Land o' tlie Leal. 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean — 
And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean, — 
The joy that's aye to last 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

tSae dear's that joy was bought, Jean. 
Sae free the battle fought, Jean, 
That sinfu' man e'er brought 
To the Land o' the Leal. 



Oh, dry your glistening e'e, Jean! 
My soul langs to be free, Jean; 
And angels beckon nie 
To the Land o' the Leal. 

Oh, baud ye leal and true, Jean! 
Your day it's wearin' through, Jean: 
And I'll welcome you 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
Now, fare-ye-well, my ain Jean. 
This warld's cares are vain, Jean: 
AVe'Il meet, and we'll be fain, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 



William Newell. 



SERVE GOD AND BE CHEERFUL. 

•' Serve God and be cheerful." The 
motto 
.Shall be mine, as the bishop'^ of 
old; 
On my soul's coat-of-arms, I will 
write it 
In letters of azure and gold. 

"Serve God and be cheerful," .self- 
balanced, 
Whether Fortune smile sweetly or 
frown. 
Christ stood king before Pilate. 
Within me 
1 carry the sceptre and crown. 

" Serve God and be cheerful." Make 
brighter 
The brightness that falls to your 
lot; 
The rare or the daily-sent blessing. 
Profane not with gloom and with 
doubt. 

" Serve God and be cheerful." Each 
sorrow 
Is — with your will in God's — for 
the best, 
0"er the cloud hangs the rainbow. 
To-morrow 
AVMll see the blue sky in the west. 



"Serve God and be cheerful." The 

darkness 

Only masks the surprises of dawn; 

And the deeper and grlnnnei- the 

midnight, 

The brighter and sweeter the morn. 

"Serve God and be cheerful."" The 
winter 
Rolls round to the beautiful s]iring, 
And in the green grave of the snow- 
drift 
The nest-building robins will sing. 

" Serve God and be cheerful.'" Look 

upward! [gloom: 

God's countenance scatters the 

And the soft summer light of II is 

heaven 

Shines over the cross and the tomb. 

"Serve God and be cheerfid."" The 
wrinkles 
Of age we may take with a smile : 
But the wrinkles of faithless fore- 
boding [guile. 
Are the crow's feet of Beelzebub's 

" Serve God and be cheerful." Relig- 
ion 
Looks all the more lovely in white: 
And God is best served by His servant 
When, smiling, he serves in the 
light; 



396 



NEWMAN— NORTON. 



And lives out the glad tidings of 
Jesus 
In the sunshine He came to im- 
part. 
For tlie fruit of His word and His 
8pirit 
"•Is love, joy and peace" in the 
heart. 



" Serve God and be cheerful." Live 
nobly. 
Do right and do good. Make the 
best 
Of the gifts and the work put before 
you, 
And to God, without fear, leave the 
rest. 



John Henry Newman 

A VOICE FROM AFAH. 



Wkep not for me ; — 
Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with 

gloom 
The stream of love that circles home, 

Light hearts and free! 
Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty 
lends ; 
Nor miss my face, dear friends! 

I still am near; — 
Watching the smiles 1 prized on 
earth ; mirth ; 

Your converse mild, your blameless 

Now, too, I hear 
Of whispered sounds the tale com- 
plete. 
Low prayers and music sweet. 

A sea before 
The Tlirone is spread : — its pure still 

glass 
Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 

AVe, on its shore. 



Share, in the bosom of our rest. 
God's knowledge, and are blessed. 



FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT. 

Prune thou thy words, the thoughts 
control 

That o'er thee swell and throng: 
They will condense within thy soul. 

And change to purpose strong. 

But he who lets his feelings run 

In soft luxurious flow. 
Shrinks A\hen hard service must be 
done. 

And faints at every woe. 

Faith's meanest deed more favor 
bears. 
When hearts and wills are weighed. 
Than highest transport's choicest 
prayei-s. 
Which bloom their hour and fade. 



Andrews Norton. 



SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHO WER. 

The rain is o'er. How dense and 
bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight. 
Contrasting with the dark blue 
sky! 



In grateful silence earth receives 
The general blessing ; fresh and fair. 

Each flower expands its little leaves, 
As glad the common joy to share. 

The softened sunbeams pour around 
A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 



NORTON. 



397 



The wind blows cool; the scented 
ground 
Is breathin" odors on the iiale. 



Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous 
pile, 
Methinks some spirit of the air 
Might rest, to gaze below awhile. 
Then turn to bathe and revel 
there. 

The sun breaks forth ; from off the 
scene 
Its floating veil of mist is flung; 
And all the wilderness of green 
With trembling drops of light is 
huna. 



Now gaze on nature, — yet the same; 
Glowing with life, by breezes 
fanned, 
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 
Fresh in her youtli, from (iod's own 
hand. 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 
Which sounds from all below, 
above ; 
She calls her children to rejoice, 
And round them throws her arms 
of love. 

Drink in her influence; low-born care, 
And all the train of mean desire. 

Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
And mid this living light expire. 



Caroline E. S. Norton. 

BIXGEN ON THE RHIXE. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 

There Avas lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; 

But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away. 

And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. 

Tlie dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand. 

And he said, " I nevermore shall see my own, my native land: 

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine. 

For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, wlien they meet and crowd around. 
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day" was done. 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sim ; 
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars. — 
The death- wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; 
And some v/ere young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, — 
And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. 



" Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; 

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. 

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; 

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 

I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's sword; 

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine 

On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine. 




THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 



Page 399. 



O'REILLY. 



399 



John Boyle O'Reilly. 



PEACE AXn PAIA\ 

Thk day and night are symbols of 
creation, 
And each has part in all that God 
has made: 
Tliere is no ill without its compen- 
sation. 
And life and death are only light 
and shade. 
There never beat a heart so base and 
sordid 
But felt at times a sympathetic 
glow; " [ed, 

Tliere never lived a virtue unreward- 
Xor died a vice without its meed of 
woe. 

In this brief life despair should never 
reach us; 
The sea looks wide because the 
shores are dim; 
The star that led the Magi still can 
teach us 
The way to go if we but look to Him. 



And as we wade, the darkness clos- 
ing o'er us, 
The lumgry waters surging to the 
chin. 
Our deeds will rise like stepping- 
stones before us — 
The good and bad — for we may 
use the sin. 

A sin of youth, atoned for and for- 
given, 
Takes on a virtue, if we choose to 
find: 
When clouds across our onward path 
are driven, 
We still may steer by its pale light 
behind. 
A sin forgotten is in part to pay for, 
A sin remembered is a constant 
gain : 
Sorrow, next joy, is what we ought 
to pray for. 
As next to peace we profit most 
from pain. 



THE HIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 



No song of a soldier riding down 
To the raging fight from Winchester 

town ; 
No song of a time that shook the 

earth 
With the nation's throe at a nation's 

birth : 
But the song of a brave man, free 

from fear 
As .Sheridan's self or Paul Revere; 
Who risked what they risked, free 

from strife. 
And its promise of glorious pay — his 

life! 

The peaceful valley has waked and 

stirred. 
And the answering echoes of life are 

heard : 
The dew still clings to the trees and 

grass, 
And the early toilers smiling pass. 



As they glance aside at the white- 
walled homes. 

Or up the valley where merrily comes 

The brook that sparkles in diamond 
rills 

As the sun comes over the Hamp- 
shire hills. 

What was it that passed like an omi- 
nous breath — 

Like a shiver of fear or a touch of 
death ? 

What was it ? The valley is peace- 
ful still. 

And the leaves are afire on top of the 
hill. 

It was not a sound — nor a thing of 
sense — 

But a pain, like the pang of the 
short suspense [see 

That thrills tlie being of those who 

At their feet the gulf "of Eternity ! 



400 



a RE ILLY. 



The air of the valley has felt the chill : 

The workers j^ause at the door of the 
mill; 

The housewife, keen to the shiver- 
ing air 

Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 

Instinctive taught by the mother- 
love, 

And thinks of the sleeping ones 
above. 

Why start the listeners ? Why does 
the course 

( )f the mill-stream widen ? Is it a 
horse — 

Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they 
say — 

That gallops so wildly Williamsburg 
Vay ! 

God! what was that, like a human 
shriek 

From the winding valley ? Will no- 
body speak ? 

"Will nobody answer those women 
who cry 

As the awful warnings thunder by ? 

Whence come they ? Listen I And 
now they hear 

The sound of the galloping horse- 
hoofs near; 

They watch the trend of the vale, 
and see [inglv, 

The rider who thunders so menac- 

With waving arms and warning 
scream 

To the home-filled banks of the val- 
ley stream. [street 

He draws no rein, but he shakes the 

With a shout and the ring of the gal- 
loping feet; 

And this the cry he flings to the 
wind : 

"To the hills for your lives! The 
flood is behind! " 

He cries and is gone: but they know 

the worst — 
The breast of the Williamsburg dam 

has burst! 
The basin that nourished their happy 

homes 
Is changed to a demon. It comes! 

it comes ! 



A monster in aspect, with shaggy 

front, 
Of shattered dwellings, to take the 

brunt 
Of the homes they shatter — white- 

maned and hoarse. 
The merciless Terror fills the course 
Of the narrow valley, and rushing 

raves. 
With Death on the first of its hissing 

waves, [mill 

Till cottage and street and crowded 
Are crumbled and crushed. 

But onward still. 
In front of the roaring flood is heard 
The galloping horse and the warning 

word. 
Thank God! the brave man's life is 

spared ! 
From Williamsburg town he nobly 

dared 
To race with the flood and take the 

road 
In front of the terrible swath it 

mowed. 
For miles it thundered and crashc.l 

behind. 
But he looked ahead with a steadfast 

mind ; 
" They must be warned! " was all he 

said. 
As away on his terrible ride he sped. 

When heroes are called for, bring the 

crown 
To this Yankee rider: send him down 
On the stream of time with the Cur- 

tius old; 
His deed as the Roman's was brAve 

and bold, 
And the tale can as noble a thrill 

awake. 
For he offered his life for the people's 

sake. 



FOUEVEn. 

Those we love truly never die. 
Though year by year the sad memo- 
rial wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and 
death. 
Arc laid upon their graves. 



O'REILLY. 



401 



For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love; and love 

can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler 
lessons teach 
Than those by mortals read. 

Well blessed is he who has a dear 
one dead ; 
A friend he has whose face will never 

change — 
A dear companion that will not grow 
strange ; 
The anchor of a love is death. 

Tlie blessed sweetness of a loving 
breath 
Will reach our cheek all fi-esh tlirough 

weary years, 
For her who died long since, ah! 
waste not tears, 
She's thine unto the end. 

Tliank God for one dead friend, 
With face still radiant with the light 

of truth, 
Wliose love comes laden with the 
scent of youth, 
Tiu-ough twenty years of death ! 



UifSPOKEiSr WOliDS. 

The kindly words that rise within 
tlie heart, 
And thrill it witii their sympathetic 
tone 
But die ere spoken, fail to play their 
part. 
And claim a merit that is not their 
own. 
The kindly word unspoken is a sin, 
A sin that wraps itself in purest 
guise. 
And telis the heart that, doubting, 
looks within. 
That not in speech, but thought, 
the virtue lies. 



Poor banished Hagar! — prayed a well 
might burst 
From out the santl to save her 
parching child. 
And loving eyes that cannot see the 
mind 
Will watch the expected movement 
of the lip: 
Ah! can ye let its cutting silence 
wind 
Around that heart, and scathe it 
like a whip ? 

Unspoken words, like treasmesin the 
mine. 
Are valueless until we give them 
birth: 
Like unfound gold their hidden beau- 
ties shine. 
Which God has made to bless and 
gild the earth. 
How sad 'twould be to see a masters 
hand 
Strike glorious notes upon a voice- 
less lute ! 
But oh! what pain when, at God's 
own oomniaiid, 
A heaitstring thrills Milli kind- 
ness, but is mute ! 

Then hide it not, the music of the 
soul. 
Dear sympathy, expressed with 
kindly voice. 
But let it like a shining river roll 
To deserts dry, — to hearts that 
woidd rejoice. 
Oh! let the symphony of kindly 
\\ords 
Sound for the poor, the friendless, 
and the weak; 
And lie will liless you, — He who 
struck these chords 
Will strike another when in turn 
you seek. 



HIDDEN aiA.S. 



But 'tis not so: another heart may FoK every sin that comes before the 
thirst light. 

For that kind word, as Hagar in And leaves an outward blemish on 
the wild— ! the soul. 



402 



OSGOOD. 



How many, darker, cower out of 

siglit, 
An 1 burrow, blind and silent, like 

the mole. 
And like the mole, too, with its busy 

feet 



That dig and dig a never-ending 
cave, 
Our hidden sins gnaw through the 
soul, and meet 
And feast upon each other in its 
grave. 



Frances Sargent Osgood. 

LABORAHE EST OR ARE. 



PAtJSE not to dream of the future 

before us ; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares 

that come o'er us; 
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical 

chorus, 
Unintermitting, goes up into 

heaven ! 
Never the ocean wave falters in flow- 
ing; 
Never the little seed stops in its 

growing; 
More and more richly the rose heart 

keeps glowing. 
Till from its nourishing stem it is 

riven. 

"Labor is worship!" — the robin is 
singing; 

"• Labor is worship! " — the wild bee 
is ringing; 

Listen! tliat eloquent whisper, up- 
springing. 
Speaks to thy soul from out Na- 
ture's great heart. 

From the dark cloud flows the life- 
giving shower; 

From the rough sod blows the soft- 
breathing flower; 

From the small insect, the rich coral 
bower; 
Only man shrinks, in the plan, 
from his part. 

Labor is life! — 'Tis the still water 
faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark 
rust assailetli ! 
Flowers droop and die in the still- 
ness of noon. 



Labor is glory! — the flying cloud 

lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and 

brightens ; 
Idle hearts only the dark future 

frightens ; 
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou 

keep them in tune! 

Labor is rest, — from the sorrows that 

greet us; 
Rest from all petty vexations that 

meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever 

entreat us. 
Rest from world-sirens that lure us 

to ill. 
Work, — and pure slumbers shall 

wait on thy pillow; 
Work. — thou shalt ride over Care's 

coming billow: 
Lie not down wearied 'neatli Woe's 

weeping-willow! 
Work with a stout heart and reso- 
lute will ! 

Labor is health, — lo! the husband- 
man reaping, 

How through his veins goes the life- 
current leaping ! 

How his strong arm in his stalwart 
pride sweeping. 
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
guides. 

Labor is wealth, — in the sea the 
pearl groweth : 

Rich the queen's robe from the frail 
cocoon floweth; 

From the fine acorn the strong forest 
bloweth ; 
Temple and statue the marble 
block hides. 



Droop not, though shame, sin, and 
anguisli are round thee ! 

Bravely tling off the cold chain that 
iiatli bound thee ! 

liOok to yon pure heaven sinihng be- 
yond thee! 
Rest not content in thy darkness, 
— a clod! 



Work — for some good, be it ever so 

slowly; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so 

lowly : 
Labor ! — all labor is noble and 

holy: 
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer 

to thy God. 



Kate Putnam Osgood. 



BEFORE THE PRIME. 

You think you love me. Marguerite, 
Because you find Love's fancy sweet; 
So, zealously, you seek a sign 
To prove your heart is wliolly mine. 

Ah, were it so! But listen, dear! 
Bethink you how, this very year, 
AVi;h fond impatience you were fain 
To watcli the earth grow green again; 

When April's violets, here and there, 

Surprised the imexpectant air, 

You searched them out, and brought 

me some. 
To show, you said, tliat spring was 

come. 

But, sweetheart, when the lavish May 
Rained flowers and fragrance round 

your way. 
You liad no thought her bloom to 

bi'ing, 
To prove the presence of the spring! 

Believe me, when Love's April-time 
Shall ripen to its perfect prime. 
You will not need a sign to know 
What every glance and breath will 
sliow ! 



DRIVIXG HOME THE COWS. 

Oi'T of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them Into the river lane ; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow -bars 
again. 



Lender the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober 
pace ; 
The merry whistle for once was still. 
And something shadowed the sun- 
ny face. 

Only a hoy! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go : 

Two already were lying (lead, 

Under the feet of the trampling 
foe. 

But after the evening work Avas done. 
And the frogs were loud in the 
meadow-swamp, 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun. 
And stealthily followed the foot- 
path damp. 

Across the clover, and through the 
wheat. 
With resolute heart and purpose 
grim. 
Though cold was the dew on his hur- 
rying feet, I him. 
And the blind bat's flitting startled 

Thrice since then had the lanes been 
white, 
And tlie orchards sweet with apple- 
bloom; 
And now, when the cows came back 
at night. 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely 
farm 
That three were lying where two 
had lain; 



404 



aSHAUGHNESSY. 



And the old man's tremulous, pal- 
sied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The simimer day grew cool and late. 

He went for the cows when the 

work was done; 

l>ut down the lane, as he opened the 

gate, 

lie saw them coming one by one, — 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
Shaking their horns in the evening 
wind ; 
Cropping the buttercups out of the 
grass, — hind ? 

15ut who was it following close be- 
Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue ; 



And worn and pale, from the crisp- 
ing hair, 
Looked out a face that the father 
knew. 

For southern prisons will sometimes 
yawn. 
And yield their dead unto life 
again ; 
And the day that comes with a cloudy 
dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meet- 
ing eyes ; 
For the heart must speak when the 
lips are dumb; 
And under the silent evening skies 
Together they followed the cattle 
home. 



ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 

I FOUNB a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone : 

My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; 

I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street; 

And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet. 

I said, " O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker too. 
The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you ? 
For while I toil, great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes. 
And when I form my perfect work, it lives and never dies. 

"I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form, 
Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm; 
Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine, 
And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine. 

" And yet for days it seems my heart shall blossom never more. 

And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore: 

Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways. 

How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days ?" 

Then he replied: " Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day 
Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray. 
A great thousrht rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain. 
The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again. 

" The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, — 
A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. 
I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began 
With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. 



" I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, 

The worker with the chisel and tlie worker witli the pen, — 

The restless toilers after good, wlio sow and never reap. 

And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. 

*• Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my imdaunted eyes 
Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise 
At sight of all those labors, and because that every one. 
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. 

" They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways. 
Together we began to-day as on tlie other days: 
1 felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the days wore through, 
Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too. 

" Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily 
The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, 
That while they nobly held it as each man can do and bear. 
It did not wholly fall my side as though no men were there. 

" And so we toil together many a day from morn till night, 

I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height; 

For though the common stones are mine, and Lhey have lofty cares, 

Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs. 

" And 't is not wholly mine or theirs, I think of through the day, 
But the great, eternal thing we make together, I and they; 
Far in the sunset I behold a city that man owns. 
Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of my common stones. 

" Then noonward, as the task grows light with all the labor done, 
The single thought of all the day becomes a joyous one; 
For, rising in my heart at last where it has lain so long, 
It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows almost a song. 

" But when the evening comes, indeed, the words have taken wing, 
The thought sings in me still, but I am all too tired to sing: 
Therefore, O you my friend, who serve the world with minstrelsy. 
Among our fellow-workers' songs make that one sons for me. 



Rebecca S. Palfrey. 



WHITE UNDERNEATH. 



1a\T() a city street. 

Narrow and noisome, chance had led 

my feet; 
Poisonous to every sense; and the 

sun's rays 
Loved not the unclean place. 



It seemed that no pure thing 

Its whiteness here would ever dare to 

bring ; 
Yet even into this dark place and 

low, 
God had sent down his snow. 



Here, too, a little child, 
IStood by the drift, now blackened 
and defiled; Iplay, 

And with his i-osy hands, in earnest 
Scraped the dark crust away. 

Checking my hurried pace, 
To watch the busy hands and earnest 
face, |hght, 

I heard liiin laugh aloud in pure de- 
That underneath, 'twas white. 

Then, through a broken pane, 

A woman's voice summoned him in 

again. 
With softened mother-tones, that half 

excused 
The unclean words she used. 



And as I lingered near. 

His baby accents fell upon my ear: 

'• See, I can make the snow again for 

you. 
All clean and white and new! " 

Ah ! surely God knows best. 

Our sight is short: faith trusts to Him 
the rest. 

Sometimes, we know. He gives to hu- 
man hands 

To work out His commands. 

Perhaps He holds apart. 

By baby fingers in that mother's heart. 

One fair, clean spot that yet may 

spread and grow. 
Till all be white as snow. 



Theodore Parker. 



THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE 
LIFE. 

O THOU, great Friend to all the sons 
of men, 
Who once appeared in humblest 
guise below. 
Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's 
chain. 
And call Thy brethren forth from 
want and woe, — 
We look to thee! Thy truth is still the 
Light 
Which guides the nations, groping 
on their way. 
Stumbling and falling in disastrous 
night. 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect 
day. 
Yes; Thou art still the Life, Thou art 
the way 
The holiest known; Light, Life, 
the Way of heaven! 
And they who dearest hope and 
deepest pray 
Toil by the Light, Life, Way, 
which Thou liast given. 



THE HIGHER GOOD. 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or 
fame. 

Though once they would have 
joyed my carnal sense ; 

I shudder not to bear a hated name, 

Wanting all wealth, myself my sole 
defence. 
But give me. Lord, eyes to behold 
the truth ; 

A seeing sense that knows the 
eternal right; 

A heart with pity filled, and gen- 
tlest ruth; 

A manly faith that makes all dark- 
ness light. [kind: 
Give me the power to labor for man- 
Make me the mouth of such as 
cannot speak : 

Eyes let me be to groping men. and 

blind; [weak 

A conscience to tlie base; and to the 

Let me be hands and feet; and to 
the foolish, mind: 

And lead still further on such as 
Thy kingdom seek. 



PARNELL. 



4U7 



Thomas Parnell. 



in MX TO CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely, lasting Peace of mind! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly-horn, and hred on high, 
To crown the, favorites of the sky 
Witli more of happiness helow, 
Than victors in a triumph know! 
Whither, O whitlier art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek, contented head ? 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease '? 

Amhition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The hold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks amidst the foaming 

sea 
To gain thy love; and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the 

vales. 
Sees daisies open, rivers run. 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
>\ musing thought; but learns to know 
That Solitude's the nurse of woe. 
No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o'er the ground : 
Or in a soul exalted high, 
To range the circuit of the sky. 
Converse with stars above, and know 
All Nature in its forms below; 
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
And doubts at last for knowledge 
rise. 
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear! 
This world itself, if thou art here. 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more per- 
ceived 
The brandies wliisp(>r as they waved ; 



It seemed as all the quiet place 
Confessed the presence of her grace. 
When thus she spoke — " Go rule thy 

will. 
Bid thy wild passions all be still. 
Know God — and bring thy heart to 

know 
The joys which from religion flow: 
Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
And ril be there to crown the rest." 

Oh! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat, 
jNIight I thus my soul employ 
With sense of gratitude and joy: 
liaised as ancient prophets were, 
In heavenly vision, praise, and 

prayer ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none. 
Pleased and blessed with God alone: 
Then while the gardens take my 

sight, 
With all the colors of delight; 
While silver waters glide along. 
To please my ear, and court my song ; 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
And tliee, great Source of Nature, 

sing. 
The sun that walks his airy way. 
To liglit the world, and give the day: 
The moon that shines with borrowed 

light; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night; 
The seas tliat roll imnundierecl waves; 
The wood that spreads its sliady 

leaves; 
The field whose ears conceal the 

grain. 
The yellow treasure of the plain ; 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 
Go search among your idle dreams. 
Yom- Intsy or your vain extremes ; 
And find a life of equal bliss. 
Or own the next be^un in this. 



408 



PARSONS. 



Thomas William Parsons. 

HUDSON niJEJ!. 

EiVERS that roll most musical in song 
Are often lovely to the mind alone : 

The wanderer muses, as he moves along 
Their barren banks, on glories not their own. 

When, to give substance to his boyish dreams, 
He leaves his own, far countries to survey. 

Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, 
''Their names alone are beautiful, not they." 

If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour 
A tide more meagre than his native Charles; 

Or views the Hlione when summer's heat is o'er, 
Subdued and stagnant in the fen of iVrles: 



Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling 
His sullen tribute at the feet of liome, 

Oft to his thought must partial memory bring 
Movo nol)le waves, witliout renown, at home. 

Now let him climb the C'atskill, to behold 
The lordly Hudson, marching to the main. 

And say what bard, in any land of old. 
Had such a river to inspire his strain. 

Along the Rhine gray battlements and towers 
Declare what robbers once the realm possessed; 

But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours. 
And man has hardly more than built his nest. 

No storied castle overawes these heights; 

Nor antique arches clieck the current's play; 
Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites 

To dream of deities long passed away. 

No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft 
Of maible, yellowed by a thousand years. 

Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, — 
A summer cloud: that comes and disappears. 

But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form 
Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise 

And hold their savins to the up]ier storm. 
While far l)elow, the skiff securely plies. 

Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men 
Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, 

Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, 
Bu'Otian plenty on a Spartan soil. 



PABSONS. 



409 



Then, where tlie reign of cultivation ends. 
Again the charming wilderness begins : 

From steep to steep one solemn wootl extends, 
Till some new hamlet's rise, the boscage thins. 

And these deep gi'oves forever have remained 

Touched by no axe, — by no proud owner nursed; 

As now they stand they stood when Tharaoh reigned, 
Lineal descendants of creation's first. 



No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee 
In ancient scrolls ; no deeds of doubtful claim 

Have hung a history on every tree, 

And given each I'ock its fable and a fame. 

But neither here hath any conqueror trod, 
Nor grim invaders from barbarian climes; 

No horrors feigned of giant or of god 
Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. 

Here never yet have happy fields laid waste, 
The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, 

The cottage ruined and the shrine defaced, 
Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. 

"Yet, O Antifjuity I ■' the stranger sighs; 

" Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; 
The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes. 

Where all is fair indeed, — but all is new.'" 

False thought! is age to crumbling walls confined ? 

To Grecian fiagments and Egyptian bones '.' 
Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, 

More than old fortresses and sculjitured stones '? 

Call not this new which is the only land 
Tliat wears unchanged the same primeval face 

Which, when just dawning from its Makei-'s hand, 
Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. 

Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth 

Glide past green Eden towards the unknown south, 
Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth. 

And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth. 



Twin-born with .Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile! 

Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young; 
Oil ! had thy waters burst from Britain's isle. 

Till now i)erchance they had not flowed unsung. 



410 



PATMORE. 



THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS 
MISTliESS. 

EvKRY wedding, says the proverb, 
Makes another, soon or late; 

Never yet was any marriage 
Entered in the book of Fate, 

But the names were also written 
Of the patient jjair that wait. 

Blessings then upon the morning 
When my friend with fondest look. 

By the solemn rites' permission, 
To himself his mistress took, 

And the Destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fulfilled his office. 
Still the ground the lovers eyed. 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aimed their glances at the bride; 

But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were that stood beside 
her ; 
One was dai-k, and one was fair; 



But nor fair nor dark the other. 
Save her Arab eyes and hair; 

Neither dark nor fair. I call her, 
Yet she was the fairest there. 

While her groomsman — shall I own it? 

Yes, to thee, and only thee — 
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 

Who was fairest of the three. 
Thus he thought: "How blest the 
bridal 

Where the bride were such as she I ' " 

Then I mused upon the adage. 
Till my wisdom was perplexed, 

And 1 wondered, as the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy text, 

Which of all who heard his lesson 
Should refjuire the service next. 

Whose will be the next occasion 
For the flo\rcrs, the feast, the wine '? 

Thine, ])erchance, my dearest lady ; 
Or, who knows ? — it may be mine: 

What if 't were — forgive the fancy — 
What if 'twere both mine and 
thine ? 



Coventry Patmore. 



[From The Betrothal.] 
SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. 

I GiiEW assured before I asked. 

That she'd be mine without reserve, 
And in her imclaimed graces basked 

At leisure, till the time sliould 
serve, — 
With just (Miough of dread to thrill 

The hope, and make it trebly dear; 
Thus loath to si)eak the word, to kill 

Either the hope or happy fear. 

Till once, through lanes returning 
late, 
Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; 
And ere we reached her father's gate. 
We paused with one iiresentient 
mind ; 
And, in the dim and perfumed mist, 
Their coming stayed; who blithe 
and free, 



And very women, loved to assist 
A lover's opportunity. 

Twice rose, twice died, my trembling 
word ; 

To faint and frail cathedral chimes 
Spake time in music, and we heard 

The chafers rustling in the limes. 
Her dress, that touched me where I 
stood ; 

The warmth of her confided arm; 
Her bosom's gentle neighborhood; 

Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 

Her look, her love, her form, her 
touch ! 
The least seemed most by blissful 
tmn, — 
Blissful but that it i.leased too 
much, 
And taught the wayward soul to 
yearn. 




It was as if a harp with wires 
Was traversed by tlie breath I drew ; 

And oh, sweet meeting of desires ! 
She, answering, owned tliat slie 
loved too. 



WOULD WISDOM FOR HERSELF 
BE 'wooed. 

Woui.D Wisdom for herself be wooed. 
And wake the foolish from his 
dream, 
{She must be glad as well as good, 

And must not only be, but seem. 
Beauty and joy are hers by right; 

And, knowing this, I wonder less 
That she's so scorned, when falsely 
dight 
In misery and ugliness. 
What's that which Heaven to man 
endears. 
And that which eyes no sooner see 



Than the heart says, with floods of 
tears, 

"Ah! that's the thing which I 
would be ? " 
Not childhood, full of fears and frets : 

Not youth, impatient to disown 
Those visions high, which to forget 

Were worse than never to have 
known. 
Not these; but souls foimd liere ami 
here. 

Oases in our waste of sin. 
When everything is well and fair, 

And God remits his discipline; 
AVhose sweet subdual of the world 

'I'he worldling scarce can recognize; 
And ridicule, against it hurled. 

Drops witli a broken sting and dies. 
They live by law, not like the fool. 

But like the bard who freely sings 
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, 

And linds in them not bonds but 



James Gates Percival. 



[From J'r()iiie.t/H'ai<, Part II.] 

AI'OSTROPHE TO THE SUN. 

(ENTiiE of light and energy ! thy way 
Is through the unknown void; thou 

hast thy throne, 
Morning, and evening, and at noon 

of day. 
Far in the blue, untended and alone; 
Ere the tirst-wakened airs of earth 

had blown. 
On thou didst march, triumphant in 

thy light; 
Then thou diilst send thy glance, 

which still hath flown 
Wide througli the never-ending 

woi-lds of night. 
And yet thy full orb bui-ns with flash 

as keen and bright. 



Thy path is high in Heaven; — we 

cannot gaze 
On the intense of light that girds thy 

car ; 



There is a crown of glory in thy rays. 
Which bear thy pure divinity afar. 
To mingle with the equal light of 

star ; 
For thou, so vast to us, art in the 

whole 
One of the sparks of night, that fire 

the air, 
i\.nd as around thy centre planets 

roll. 
So thou too hast thy path aroimd the 

Central Soul. 



Age o'er thee has no power; — thou 

bring' st the same 
Light to renew the morning, as when 

first, [flame. 

If not eternal, thou, with front of 
On the dark face of earth in glory 

burst. 
And warmed the seas, and in their 

bosom nursed 
The earliest things of life, the worm 

and shell ; 



412 



PERCIVAL. 



Till through the sinking ocean, moun- 
tains pierced, 

And then came fortli tlie land where- 
on we dwell. 

Reared like a magic fane above the 
watery swell. 

Thou lookest on the earth, and then 

it smiles; 
Thy light is hid, and all things droop 

and mourn ; 
Laughs the wide sea around her bud- 
ding isles, 
When through their heaven thy 

changing car is borne ; 
Thou wheel' St away thy flight, the 

woods are shorn 
Of all their waving locks, and storms 

anake; 
All, that was once so beautiful, is 

torn 
By the wild winds which plough the 

lonely lake. 
And in their maddening rush, the 

crested mountains shake. 

The earth lies buried in a shroud of 

snow; 
Life lingers, and would die, but thy 

leturn 
Gives to their gladdened hearts an 

overflow 
Of all the power that brooded in the 

urn 
Of their chilled frames, and then 

they proudly spurn 
All bands that would confine, and 

give to air 
Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, 

till they burn. 
When on a dewy morn thou dartest 

there 
Rich waves of gold to wreathe with 

fairer light the fair. 

Thine are the mountains, where they 

purely lift 
Snows that have never wasted, in a 

sky 
Which iiath no stain; below, the 

storm may drift 
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust 

roar by ; 



Aloft in thy eternal smile they li<! 
Dazzling but cold ; thy farewell glance 

looks there. 
And when below thy hues of beauty 

die 
Girt round them as a rosy belt, they 

bear 
Into the high dark vault a brow that 

still is fair. 

The clouds are thine, and all their 
magic hues 

Are pencilled by thee; when thou 
bendest low, 

Or comest in thy strength, thy hand 
imbues 

Their waving fold with such a per- 
fect glow 

Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures 
throw 

Shame on the proudest art ; the ten- 
der stain 

Hung round the verge of Heaven, 
that as a bow 

Girds the wide world, and in their 
blended chain 

All tints to the deep gold, that flashes 
in thy train. 

These are thy trophies, and thou 

bend" St thy arch. 
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold 

twine. 
Where the spent storm is hasting on 

its march ; 
And tliei-e the glories of thy light 

combine. 
And form with perfect curve a lifted 

line, 
Striding the earth and air; — man 

looks and tells 
How peace and mercy in its beauty 

shine. 
And how the heavenly messenger 

impels 
Her glad wings on the path, that thus 

in ether swells. 

The ocean is thy vassal; thou dost 

sway 
His waves to thy dominion, and they 

go, 
Where thou in Heaven dost guide 

them on their way, 



PERCIVAL. 



418 



Rising and falling in eternal flow; 
Thou lookest on the waters, and they 

glow, 
They take them wings and spring 

aloft in air, 
And change to clouds, and then, 

dissolving, throw 
Their treasures back to earth, and 

rushing, tear 
The mountain and the vale, as 

proudly on they bear. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
Where the purple mullet and gold- 
fish rove, 
Where the sea-flower spreads its 

leaves of blue, 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty 
shine, [brine. 

Far down in the green and glassy 
The floor is of sand, like the moun- 
tain drift. 
And the pearl-shells spangle the 

flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and 

billows flow; 
The water is calm and still below, 
For the winds and waves are absent 

there. 
And the sands are bright as the stars 

that glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air: 
There with its waving blade of green, 
The sea-flag streams through the si- 
lent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is 

seen 
To blush, like a banner bathed in 

slaughter: 
There \\\i\\ a light and easy motion. 
The fan-coral sweeps through the 

clear ileep sea; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of 

ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland 

lea: 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 
Is sporting amid those bowers of 

stone, 



And is safe when the wrathful spirit 

of storms 
Has made the top of the wave his 

own; 
And when the ship from his fury 

flies. 
Where the myriad voices of ocean 

roar. 
When the wind-god frowns in the 

nuuky skies, 
And demons are waiting tlie wi-eck 

on shore; 
Then far below in the peaceful sea. 
The purple nuillet and gold-fish rove. 
Where the waters nuiimur tranquilly. 
Through the bending twigs of the 

coral grove. 



TO SENECA LAKE. 

On thy fair bo?cm, silver lake! 

The wild swan spreads his snowy 

sail. 
And round his breast the ripples 

break, 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream! 
Tlie dipping paddle echoes far. 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
And bright reflects the polar star. 

The Maves along thy pebbly shore. 
As blows the north-wind, heave their 

foam. 
And cml aiound the dashing oar; 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's 
side. 



At 



hour. 



shines th( 



midnight 
moon. 
A sheet of silver spreads below. 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
Light clouds, like wreaths of inucst 
snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake! 
Oh! I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake. 
And evening tells us, toil is o'er. 




TnKY sat and combed their beautiful 
hair. 
Their long bright tresses, one by 
one, 
As tliey lauglied and tallied in tlie 
clianiber tliere. 
After tlie revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and qua- 
. drille; 
Idly they laughed like other girls. 
Who over the tire, when all is still, 
Cojiib out their braids and curls. 

liobes of satin and Brussels lace. 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too, 
.Scattered about in every jilace. 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of 
white. 
The jirettiest nightgowns luider 
the sun, 
Stockingless. slipperless, sit in the 
night. 
For the revel is done. 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 
Those wonderful waves of brown 
and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber 
there. 
And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then, out of the gathering winter 
chill, 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes 
weather. 
While the fire is out and the house is 
still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
The prettiest nightgowns under the 
sun, 
( 'urtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done! — 

Float along in a splendid dream. 
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 



Flashing of jewels and flutter of 
laces. 
Tropical odors sweeter than nuisk; 
Men and women with l>eautiful faces 
And eyes of tropical dusk, — 

And one face shining out like a star, 
One face haunting the dreams of 
each, 
And one voice sweeter than others 
are. 
Breaking into silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded 
bloom. 
An old, old story over again. 
As down the royai bannered room. 
To the golden gittern's strain. 

Two and two, they dreamily walk. 
While an unseen spirit walks be- 
side. 
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 
He claimeth one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge, dream on to- 
gether. 
With never a pang of jealous fear! 
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Eobed for the bridal, and robed foi- 
the tomb. 
Braided brown hair and golden 
tress. 
There '11 be only one of you left for 
the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, — 

Only one for the bridal pearls. 

The robe of satin and I3russels lace. 
Only one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal 
white. 
For you the revel has just begun : 



PERRY. 



415 



But for her Avho sleeps in your arms 
to-night 
The revel of life is done ! 

But, robed and crowned with your 
saintly bliss, 
Queen of heaven and bride of the 
sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you' 11 never miss 
The kisses another hath won! 



IN 



ANTICIPATION. 



" I'll take the orchard path,'' she 
said. 
Speaking lowly, smiling slowly : 
The brook was dried within its bed. 
The hot sun flung a flame of red 
Low in the west as forth she sped. 

Across the dried brook-course she 
went, 
Singing lowly, smiling slowly; 
She scarcely felt the sun that spent 
Its fiery force in swift descent. 
She never saw the wheat was bent. 

The grasses parched, the blossoms 
dried ; 
Singing lowly, smiling slowly. 
Her eyes amidst the drouth espied 
A summer pleasance far and wide. 
With roses and sweet violets pied. 

II. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

But homeward coming all the way. 

Sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
She knew the bent wheat withering 

lay. 
She saw the blossoms' dry decay. 
She missed the little brooklet's play. 

A breeze had sprung from out the 

south, 
But, sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
She only felt the burning drouth; 
Her eyes were hot and parched her 

mouth. 
Yet sweet the wind blew from the 

south. 



And when the wind brought welcome 
rain. 
Still sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
She never saw the lifting grain. 
But only — a lone orchard lane. 
Where she had waited all in vain. 



TYTNG HER BONNET UNDER HER 
CHIN. 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
But not alone in the silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
For, tyingher bonnet under her chin. 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together up the 

hill. 
Where the wind comes blowing meriy 

and chill ; 
And it blew the ciu-ls a frolicsome 

race. 
All over her happy peach-colored 

face. 
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied 

them in. 
Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blew a color, bright as the 

bloom 
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing 

plume. 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest 

girl 
That ever imprisoned a romping ciu'l, 
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
Tied a young man's heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill : 

Madder, merrier, chillier still 

The western wind blew down, and 

played 
The wildest tricks with the little 

maid. 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

O western wind, do you think it was 

fair. 
To play such tricks with her floating 

hair? 



To gladly, gleefully do your best 

To blow her against the young man's 
breast, 

Where he as gladly folded her in. 

And kissed her mouth and her dim- 
pled chin ? 

Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought. 
An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you, 
After the sun had dried the dew, 
What perilous danger you'd be in. 
As she tied her bonnet under her 
chin ! 



SOME DAY OF DA I'.S'. 

(Some day; some day of days, thread- 
ing the street 
With idle, heedless pace, 
Unlooking for such grace, 
I shall behold your face! 
Some day, some day of days, thus 
may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine from 
skies of May, 



Or winter's icy chill 
Touch whitely vale and hill. 
What matter '> I shall thrill 
Through every vein with summer on 
that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will 
all come back, 
And for a moment there 
I shall stand fresh and fair. 
And drop the garment care ; 
Once more my Y>erfect youth will 
nothing lack. 

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 
'twin be,— 
How face to face each soul 
Will slip its long control. 
Forget the dismal dole 

Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea; 

And glance to glance, and hand to 
hand in greeting, 
The past with all its fears. 
Its silences and tears. 
Its lonely, yearning years. 
Shall vanish in the moment of that 
meeting. 



Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 



ALL THE RIVERS. 

" All the rivers run into the sea." 
Like the pulsing of a river. 
The motion of a song. 
Wind the olden words along 
The tortuous turnings of my thoughts 
whenever 

I sit beside the sea. 

" All the rivers run into the sea." 
O you little leaping river 
Laugh on beneath your breath ! 
With a heart as deep as death. 
Strong stream, go patient, grave, and 
hasting never, — 
I sit beside the sea. 

" All the rivers run into the sea." 
Why the passion of a river ? 
The striving of a soul ? 



Calm the eternal waters roll 
Upon the eternal shore. At last, 
whatever 

Seeks it — finds the sea. 

"All the rivers run into the sea.'' 
O thou boiuiding, burning river, 
Hurrying heart! I seem 
To kiio\\" ( so one knows in a dream ) 
That in the waiting heart of C4od 
forever. 
Thou too shall find the sea. 



GEORGE ELIOT. 

A i>iLY rooted in a sacred soil. 
Arrayed with those who neither spin 

nor toil; 
Dinah, the preacher, through the 

purple air, 



PHELPS. 



417 



Forever, in her gentle evening prayer, 
Shall plead for lier — what ear too 

(leaf to hear ? — 
"As if she spoke to some one very 

near. ' ' 

\i\A he of storied Florence, whose 

great heart 
Broke for its human error; wrapped 

apart, | flame 

And scorching in the swift, prophetic 
Of passion for late holiness and 

shame 
Than untried glory grander, gladder, 

higher — 
Deathless, for her, he "testifies by 

fire." 

A statue, fair and firm, on marble 

feet. 
Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, 

sweet 
As strength, and strong as tender- 
ness, to make 
A "struggle with tlie dark" for 

white light's sake, 
Immortal stands, unanswered speaks. 

>Sliall they, 
Of her great hand the moulded, 

breathing clay, 
Her fit, select, and proud survivors 

be ? — 
Possess tlie life eternal, and not .s7k; ? 



DESERTED NESTS. 

I'd rather see an empty bough, — 
A dreary, weary bough that himg 
As boughs will hang within whose 

arms 
No mated birds had ever sung; 
Far rather than to see or touch 
The sadness of an empty nest 
Where joy has been, but is not \\o\\\ 
Where love has been, but is not blest. 



There is no sadness in the world. 
No other like it liere or there, — 
The sadness of deserted homes 
In nests, or hearts, or anywhere. 



A LETTER. 

Two things love can do, 

Only two : 
Can distrust, or can believe; 
It can die, or it can live, 
There is no syncope 
Possible to love or me, 

Go your ways ! 

Two things you can do, 

Only two : 
Be the thing you used to be. 
Or be notliing more to me. 
I can but joy or grieve, 
Can no more than die or live. 

Go your ways ! 

So far I wrote, my darling, drearily, 
But now my sad pen falls down wear- 

iiy 

From out my trembling hand. 

I did not, do not, cannot mean it, 

dear ! 
Come life or death, joy, grief, or 

hope, or fear, 
I bless you where I stand ! 

I bless you where I stand, excusing 

you. 
No speech nor language for accusing 

you 
My laggard lips can learn. 

To you — be what you are, or can, to 

me, — 
To you or blessedly or fatefully 
My heart must turn ! 



418 



PIATT. 



John James Piatt. 



liEADIXG THE MILESTOXE. 

I STOPPED to read the milestone here, 
A laggard school-boy, long ago; 

I came not far — my home was near — 
But ah, how far I longed to go! 

Behold a number and a name, 
x\. linger, westward, cut in stone: 

The vision of a city came. 
Across the dust and distance shown. 

Around me lay the farms asleep 

In hazes of autunmal air, 
And sounds that quiet loves to keep 

Were heard, and heard not, every- 
where. 

I read the milestone, day by day : 
I yearned to cross the barren bound, 

To know the golden Far-away, 
To walk the new Enchanted 
Ground ! 



TWO PATRONS. 

"What shall I sing?" I sighed, 
and said, 
" That men shall Icnow me when 
my name 
Is lost with kindred lips, and dead 
Are laurels of familiar fame ? " 

Below, a violet in the dew 

Breathed through the dark its 
vague perfume; 
Above, a star in quiet blue 

Touched with a gracious ray the 
gloom. 

"Sing, friend, of me," the violet 
sighed, 
" That I may haunt your grave 
witlilove;" 
"Sing, friend, of me," the star re- 
plied, 
" That I may light the dark above." 



THE SIGHT OF ANGELS. 

The angels come, the angels go. 
Through oijeii doors of purer air; 



Their moving presence oftentimes 
we know, 
It tlirills us everywhere. 

Sometimes we see them ; lo ! at night. 
Our eyes were shut, but opened 
seem : 
The darkness breathed a breath of 
wondrous light, 
And then it was a dream! 



THE LOVE-LETTEU. 

I GREET thee, loving letter — 
Unopened, kiss thee free. 

And dream her lips within thee 
Give back the kiss to me ! 

The fragrant little rose-leaf. 
She sends by thee, is come : 

Ah, in her heart was blooming 
The rose she stole it from! 



THE GOLDEN HAND. 

Lo, from the city's heat and dust 
A golden hand forever thrust. 
Uplifting from a spire on high 
A shining finger in the sky ! 

I see it when the morning brings 
Fresh tides of life to living things. 
And the great world awakes: behold. 
That lifted hand in morning gold ! 

I see it when the noontide beats 
Pulses of fire in busy streets ; 
The dust flies in the flaming air: 
Above, that quiet hand is there. 

I see it when the twilight clings 

To the dark earth with hovering 

wings : 
Flashing with the last fluttering ray, 
That golden hand remembers day. 

The midnight comes — the holy hour : 
The city like a giant flower 
Sleeps full of dew : that hand, in light 
Of moon and stars, how weirdly 
bright! 



PIATT. 



419 



Below, in many a noisy street 
Are toiling hands and striving feet; 
The weakest rise, the strongest fall : 
That equal hand is over all. 

Below, in courts to guard the land, 
Gold buys the tongue and binds the 

hand ; 
Stealing in God's great scales the 

gold ; 
That awful hand, above, behold I 

Below, the Sabbaths walk serene 
With the great dust of days between; 
Preachers within their pulpits stand : 
See, over all, that heavenly hand I 



But the hot dust, in crowded air 
Below, arises never there: 
O speech of one who cannot speak I 
O Sabbath-witness of the Week ! 



A SOXG OF CONTENT. 

The eagle nestles near the sun ; 

The dove's low nest for me! — 
The eagle's on the crag: sweet one. 

The dove's in our green tree. 
For hearts that beat like thine and 
mine. 

Heaven blesses humble earth ; 
The angels of our Heaven shall shine 

The angels of our hearth ! 



Sarah M. B. Piatt. 



TO-DA Y. 

Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, 
I cannot love you while you stay; 

Put on the dim, still charm of death. 
Fade to a phantom, float away, 
And let me call you Yesterday ! 

Let empty flower-dust at my feet 
Eemind me of the buds you wear; 

Let the bird's quiet show liow sweet 
The far-off singing made the air; 
And let your dew through frost 
look fair. 

In mourning you I shall rejoice. 
Go : for the bitter word may be 

A music — in the vanished voice ; 
And on the dead face I may see 
How bright its frown has been to 
me. 

Then in the haunted grass I'll sit. 
Half-tearful in your withered place. 

And watch your lovely shadow flit 
Across To-morrow's simny face. 
And vex her with your perfect 
grace. 

So, real thing of bloom and breath. 
I weary of you while you stay. 

Put on tiie dim, still charm of death. 
Fade to a phantom, float away. 
And let me call you Yesterday ! 



LAST WORDS. 

Good-night, . pretty sleepers of 
mine — 

I never shall see you again : 
Ah, never in shadow or shine ; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 

In your small dreaming-dresses of 
white. 
With the wild-bloom you gathered 
to-day 
In your quiet shut hands, from the 
light 
And the dark, you will wander 
away. 

Though no graves in the bee-haunted 
grass. 
And no love in the beautiful sky. 
Shall take you as yet, you will 
pass. 
With this kiss through these teai- 
di-ops. Good-by ! 

With less gold and more gloom in 
their hair. 
When the buds near have faded to 
flowers. 
Three faces may wake here as fair — 
But older than yours are, by 
hoiu's ! 




420 



PI A IT. 



Good-night, then, lost darlings of 
mine — 

I never shall see yon again : 
Ah, never in shadow nor shine; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 



A DREAM'S A WAKENIXG. 

Shut in a close and dreary sleep, 
Lonely and frightened and op- 
pressed 
I felt a dreadful serpent creep, 

Writhing and crushing o'er my 
breast. 

I woke and knew" my chikUs sweet 

arm, 

As soft and pure as flakes of snow. 

Beneath my dream's dark, hateful 

charm, 

Had been the thing that tortured so. 

And in the morning's dew and light 

I seemed to hear an angel say, 
" The Pain that stings in Time's low 
night 
3Iav prove God's Love in higher 
\lay." 



THAT NEW WORLD. 

How gracious we are to grant to the 
dead 
Those wide, vague lands in the 
foreign sky. 
Reserving this world for ourselves 
instead — 
For we must live, though others 
must die! 

And what is this world that we keep, 

I pray ? 

True, it has glimpses of dews and 

flowers ; 

Then Youth and Love are here and 

away, [ours. 

Like mated birds — but nothing is 

Ah, nothing indeed, but we cling to 
it all."^ 
It is nothing to hear one's own 
heart beat, 



It is nothing to see one's own tears 
fall; 
Yet surely the breath of our life is 
sweet. 

Yes, the breath of our life is so 
sweet, 1 fear 
We were loath to give it for all we 
know 
Of that charmed country we hold so 
dear, 
Far into whose beauty the breath- 
less go. 

Yet certain we are, when we see 
them fade 
Out of the pleasant light of the 
sun. 
Of the sands of gold in the palm- 
leaf's shade. 
And the sti'ange high jewels all 
these have won. 

You dare not doubt it, O soul of 
mine! 
And yet if these empty eyes could 
see 
One, only one, from that voyage di- 
vine. 
With something, anything sure for 
me! 

Ah, blow me the scent of one lily, to 
tell 
That it grew outside of this world 
at most ; 
Ah, show me a plume to touch, or a 
shell 
That whispers of some miearthly 
coast ! 



MAKING PEACE. 

After this feud of yours and mine 

The sun will shine; 
After we both forget, forget, 

The sun will set. 

I pray you think how warm and 
sweet 

The heart can beat; 
I pray you think how soon the rose 

From grave-dust grows. 



PIATT. 



421 



CALLING THE DEAD. 

Mv little child, so sweet a voice 

might wake 

So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a 

sake. [you, 
Calling your buried brother back to 

You laugh and listen — till I listen 

too! 

Why does he listen ? It may be to 

hear 
Sounds too divine to reach my 

troubled eai-. 
\Vhy does he laugh '? It may be lie 

can see 
The face that only tears can hide 

from me. 

Poor baby faith — so foolish or so 
wise : 

The name I shape out of forlornest 
cries 

He speaks as with a bird's or blos- 
som's breath. 

How fair the knowledge is that 
knows not Death ! 

Ah, fools and blind — through all the 

piteous years 
Searchers of stars and graves — how 

many seers, 
Calling the dead, and seeking for a 

sign, 
Have laughed and listened, like this 

child of mine ? 



THE FLOWERS IN THE GROUND. 

Under the cofhn-lid there are roses: 
They bud like dreams in the sleep 
of the dead ; 
And the long, vague dark that around 
them closes 
Is flushed and sweet with their 
glory of red. 



From the buried seeds of love they 
blossom, 
All crimson-stained from its blood 
they start; 
And each sleeper wears them on his 
bosom, 
Clasped over the pallid dust of his 
heart. 

When the Angel of Morning shall 
shake the slumber 
Away from the graves with his 
lighted wings, 
He will gather those roses, an infi- 
nite number, 
And bear them to Heaven, the 
beautiful things! 



ASKING FOR TEARS. 

On, let me come to Thee in this wild 

way, 
Fierce with a grief that will not 

sleep, to pray 
Of all thy treasures, Father, only 

one, 
After which I may say — Thy will be 

done. 

Nay, fear not thou to make my time 

too sweet; 
I nurse a Sorrow, — kiss its hands 

and feet, 
Call it all piteous, precious names. 

and try, 
Awake at night, to hush its helpless 

cry. 

The sand is at my moaning lip, the 

glare 
Of the uplifted desert fills the air; 
My eyes are blind and burning, and 

the years 
Stretch on before me. Therefore, 

give me tears ! 



422 



PIEBPOXT. 



John Pierpont. 



THE PILGRIM FA THE US. 

The Pilgrim Fathers — where are 
tliey ? 
Tlie A\'aves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their 
spray, 
xVs they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that 
day, 
When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with 
storms. 
And white the shore Avith snow. 

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's 
sleep. 
Still brood upon the tide ; 
And the rocks yet keep their watch by 
the deep, 
To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave 
to the gale, 
When the heavens looked dark, is 
gone ; — 
As an angel's wing, through an open- 
ing cloud. 
Is seen and then witlidrawn. 

The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 

The hill, Avhose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morn- 
ing's tiame, 
In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay 
that night 
On the hill-side and the sea. 
Still lies where he laid his houseless 
head ; — 
But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: 

AVhen summer is throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in 
verdure dressed. 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day. 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the 
world. 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 



The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: 

It walks in noon's broad light; 
And it watches the bed of the glo- 
rious dead, 
AVith the holy stars by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who 
have bled. 
And shall guard this ice-bound 
shore. 
Till the waves of the bay, where the 
Mayflower lay. 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 



MY CHILI). 

I CANNOT make him dead ! 
His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bomidiug round my study 
chair; 
Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
Witli tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — he is not 
there. 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfairon the chamber stair, 

I' m stepping toward the hall. 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is 
not there: 

I thread the crowded street, 
A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and col- 
ored hair: 
And, as he 's running by. 
Follow him Mith my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — he is not 
there ! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin lid : 
Closed are his eyes : cold is his fore- 
head fair ; 
My hand that marble felt: 
O'er it in prayer I knelt 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is 
not there. 



I cannot make him dead ! 
When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental 
care, 
My spirit and my eye 
Seek him inquiringly, 
]3efore the thought comes that — he 
is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 
Of day, from sleep 1 wake. 
With my first breathing of the morn- 
ing air, 
My soul goes up, with joy. 
To II im who gave my i3oy; 
Then comes the sad thought that — 
he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close. 

Before we seek repose, [prayer, 
I'm with his mothei', offering up our 

Whate'er I may be saying. 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is 
not there ! 



Not there ! — Where then is he ? 
The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to 
wear. 
The grave, that now doth press 
Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is 
not there ! 

He lives ! — In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last. 
Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams 1 see him now ; 

And, on his angel ))row, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me 
there! " 

Yes, we all live to God ! 
Fathek, thy chastening rod 
.So help us, thine afflicted ones, to 
bear, 
That, in the spirit-land. 
Meeting at thy right hand, 
' T will be our heaven to find that — 
lie is there ! 



Edgar Allan Poe. 



ANXABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you 
may know 
By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no 
other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

/ was a child and (^he was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea: 
But we loved with a love that Avas 
more than love — 
I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs 
of lieaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long 
ago, 
In the kingdom by the sea. 



A wind blew out of the cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her highborn kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me. 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in 
heaven. 
Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all 
men know. 
In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud 
by night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel 
Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far 
than the love 
Of those that were older than we — 
Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven 
above, 



424 



POE. 



Nor the demons down under the 

sea. 
Can ever dissever my soul from the 

soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams, -without 
bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel 
the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down 

by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my 
life and my bride. 
In her sepulchre there by the sea. 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



THE BELLS. 

Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their mel- 
ody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Kunic I'hyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musi- 
cally wells 
From tlie bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling 
of the bells. 

Hear the mellow Avedding bells. 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their har- 
mony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight I 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the tmtle-dove that listens, 
while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony volumi- 
noiislv wells! 



• How it swells I 

How it dwells 

On the future! how it tells 

Of the rapture that impels 

To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of 
the bells! 

Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their tur- 
bulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mer- 
cy of the tire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and 

roar ! 
■\Vliat a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating 
air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows. 
By the twanging, 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the 
anger of the bells — 
Of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of 
the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells! 



POE. 



425 



What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their 
tone ! 
For every sound tliat floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffleil monotone. 
Feel a glory in their rolling 
On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human ; 
They are ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A pa^an from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

AVith the pjean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the pasan of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells," bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
As he knells, knells, khells. 



In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of tlie bells, bells, bells, 
To the tolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of 
the bells. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Because I feel that, in the heavens 
above. 
The angels, whispering to one 
another. 
Can find, among their bm-ning terms 
of love. 
None so devotional as that of 
" Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long 
have called you — 
You who are more than mother 
unto me. 
And fill my heart of hearts, where 
death installed you 
In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
My mother — my own mother, who 
died early, [you 

AVas but the mother of myself; but 
Are mother to tlie one I loved so 
dearly. 
And thus are dearer than the 
mother I knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 
Was dearer to my soul than its soul- 
life. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once tipon a midnight dreaiy, while I pondered, weak and weary 
Over many a quaintand curious volume of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
"Tis some visitor," t muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost \ipon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow foi- the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for ever more. 



426 



POE. 



And the silken, sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
JSo that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, " or Madam, tridy your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure 1 heard you " — here I opened wide the door; — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no inortal ever tlared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word " Lenore ?' 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore! " — 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chaml>er turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely tliat is something at my window lattice; 
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
J.et my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art siu-e no craven, 

Ghastly, grim and ancient Kaven, wandering from the Nightly shore — 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian "shore! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 



startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er. 

She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

"Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath 

sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore! " 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Prophet! " said I, " thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 

On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth tiie Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — 
" (iet thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! " 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



428 POLLOK. 


Robert 


POLLOK. 


[From The Course of Time.] 


Then turned, and with the grass- 


LORD BY HON. 


hopper, who sung 
His evening song beneath his feet. 


He touched his harp, and nations 


conversed. 


heard, entranced. 


Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds. 


As some vast river of unfailing 


his sisters were ; 


source, 


Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and 


liapid, exhaustless, deep, his num- 


winds, and storms. 


bers flowed. 


His brothers, younger brothers, whom 


And oped new fountains in the hu- 


he scarce 


man heart. 


As equals deemed. All passions of 


AVliere Fancy halted, weary in her 


all men. 


flight, 


The wild and tame, the gentle and 


In other men, his, fresli as morning. 


severe ; 


rose 


All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and 


And soared untrodden heights, and 


profane ; 


seemed at home. 


All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eter- 


Wliere angels basliful looked. Oth- 


nity; 


ers, thougli great 


All that was hated, all too, that was 


Beneath their argument seemed 


dear ; 


struggling wliiles; 


All that was hoped, all that was 


He from above descending stooped to 


feared, by man; 


touch 


He tossed about, as tempest-with- 


Tlie loftiest thought; and proudly 


ered leaves. 


stooped, as though 


Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck 


It scarce deserved his verse. With 


he macle. 


Nature's self 


With terror now he froze the cower- 


He seemed an olil acquaintance, free 


ing blood, 


to jest 


And now dissolved the heart in ten- 


At will with all her glorious majesty. 


derness ; 


He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's 


Yet would not tremble, would not 


mane." 


weep himself ; 


And played familiar with his hoary 


But back into his soul retired. 


locks ; [ennines. 


alone. 


Stood on the Alps, stood on the Ap- 


Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contempt- 


And witli the thunder talked, as 


uously 


friend to friend ; 


On hearts and passions prostrate at 


And wove his garland of the light- 


his feet. 


ning's wing. 


So Ocean from the plains his waves 


In sportive twist, the lightning's 


had late 


fiery wing, 


To desolation swept, retired in 


Which, as tlie footsteps of the dread- 


pride. 


ful God, 


Exulting in the glory of his might. 


Marching upon the storm in ven- 


And seemed to mock the ruin he had 


geance, seemed; 


wrought. 



POPE. 



429 



Alexander Pope. 



FROM ''ELOISA TO ABELAJH)." 

In these deep solitudes and awful 
cells. 

Where heavenly-pensive Contempla- 
tion dwells, 

And ever-musing melancholy reigns; 

Wliat means this tumult in a vestal's 
veins '? 

Why rove my thoughts beyond this 
last retreat ? 

Why feels my heart its long-forgot- 
ten heat ? 

Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it 
came, 

And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 
Dear fatal name ! rest ever unre- 
vealed. 

Nor pass these lips, in holy silence 
sealed : [disguise. 

Hide it, my heart, within that close 

Where, mixed with God's, his loved 
idea lies : 

write it not, my hand — the name 

appears [tears ! 

Already written — wash it out, my 
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays. 
Her heart still dictates, and lier hand 

obeys. 
Relentless walls! whose darksome 

round contains 
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : 
Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees 

liave worn: 
Ye grots and caverns shagged with 

horrid thorn ! 
Shrines ! wliere their vigils pale-eyed 

virgins keep. 
And pitying saints, whose statues 

learn to weep ! 
Though cold like you, unmoved and 

silent grown, 

1 have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
All is not Heaven's while Abelard 

has part, 
Still rebel nature holds out half my 

heart ; 
Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn 

pulse restrain, [vain. 

Nor tears for ages taught to flow in 



Soon as thy letters trembling I un- 
close, 
That well-known name awakens all 

my woes. 
Oh, name, for ever sad! for ever 

dear ! 
Still breatlied in sighs, still ushered 

with a tear. 
I tremble, too, whene'er my own 1 

find; 
Some dire misfortune follows close 

behind. 
Line after line my gusliing eyes o'er- 

flow, 
Led through a sad variety of woe : 
Now warm in love, now withering in 

my bloom. 
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! 
There stern religion quenched the 

unwilling flame. 
There died the best of passions, love 

and fame. 
Yet write, oh ! write me all, that 1 

may join 
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs 

to thine. 
Nor foes nor fortune take this power 

away ; 
And is my Abelard less kind than 

they ? 
Tears still are mine, and those I need 

not spare. 
Love but demands what else were 

shed in prayer; 
No happier task these faded eyes 

pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now can 

do. 
Then share thy pain, allow that 

sad relief; 
Ah, more tlian share it! give me all 

thy grief. 
Heaven first tauglit letters for some 

wretch's aid. 
Some banished lover, or some cap- 
tive maid; 
They live, they speak, they breathe 

what love inspires. 
Warm from the soul, and faithful to 

its Hres, 



430 



POPE. 



The virgin's wisli without hei' fears 

impart, 
Excuse tlie blusli, and pour out all 

the heart, 
Speed the soft intercourse from soul 

to soul, 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the 

Pole. 



[From An Essay on Man.^ 
MAN. 

Kkow then thyself, presume not 

God to scan, 
The proper study of mankind is Man. 
Placed on this isthmus of a middle 

state, 
A being darkly wise, and rudely 

great ; 
With too much knowledge for the 

sceptic side, 
With too much weakness for the sto- 
ic's pride. 
He hangs between; in doubt to act or 

rest ; 
In doubt to deem himself a god, or 

beast ; 
In doubt his mind or body to prefer; 
Born but to die, and reasoning but 

to err; 
Alike in ignorance, his reason such. 
Whether he thinks too little, or too 

much ; 
Chaos of thought and passion, all 

confused 
Still by himself abused, or disabused; 
Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to 

all; 
Sole judge of truth, in endless error 

hurled : 
The glory, jest, and riddle of the 

world ! 



[From An Essay on Man.] 

.'iUBMISSIOX rO SUPREME WIS- 
DOM. 

What if the foot, ordained the 
dust to tread. 
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the 
head ? 



AVhat if the head, the eye, or ear re- 
pined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling 

mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame: 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks 

or pains. 
The great directing Mind of All 

ordains. 
All are but parts of one stupendous 

whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the 

soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet 

in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal 

frame, [breeze, 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the 
Glows ill the stars, and blossoms in 

the trees; 
Lives through all life, extends 

through ail extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our 

mortal part. 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that 

mourns. 
As the rapt seraph, that adores and 

burns ; 
To Him no high, no low, no great, 

no small ; 
He fills. He bounds, connects, and 

ecjuals all. 
Cease then, nor order imperfec- 
tion name: 
(3ur proper bliss depends on what we 

blame. 
Know thy own point: this kind, this 

due degree 
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven be- 
stows on thee. 
Submit. — In this, or any other 

sphere. 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst 

bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing 

power. 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art, unknown to 

thee ; 
All chance, direction, which thou 

canst not see ; 



POPE. 



431 



All discord, harmony not understood; 
All partial evil, universal good: 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's 

spite, 
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is 

riijht. 



[From Ah Essay on Man.] 

CHARITY, GRADUALLY PERVA- 
SIVE. 

(iOD loves from whole to parts; 

but human soul 
Must rise from individual to the 

whole. 
Self-love but serves the virtuous 

mind to wake. 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful 

lake ; 
The centre moved, a circle straight 

succeeds. 
Another still, and still another 

spreads ; 
Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will 

embrace ; 
His country next, and next all human 

race ; 
Wide, and more wide, the o'ei'flow- 

ings of the mind 
Take every creature in, of every 

kind ; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless 

bounty blest, 
And heaven beholds its image in his 

breast. 



[From An Essay on Man.] 
TRUE NOBILITY. 

Honor and shame from no condi- 
tion rise ; 

Act well your part, there all the 
honor lies. 

Fortune in men has some small dif- 
ference made. 

One flaunts in rags, one flutters in 
brocade ; 

The cobbler aproned, and the parson 
gowned, 

Hie friar hooded, and the monarch 
crowned. 



''What differ more (you cry) than 

crown and cowl! " 
I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and 

a fool. 
You'll find, if once the monarch acts 

the monk, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be 

drunk, 
Worth makes the man, and want of 

it the fellow; 
The rest is all but leather or prunello. 



\_From An Essay on Man.] 

VIRTUE. THE SOLE UNFAILING 

HAPPINESS. 

Know then this truth (enough for 

man to know ) , 
" Virtue alone is happiness below." 
The only point where human bliss 

stands still. 
And tastes the good without the fall 

to ill; [ceives, 

AVliere only merit constant pay re- 
Is blest in what it takes, and what it 

gives ; 
The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, 
And if it lose, attended with no jjain: 
Without satiety, though e'er so blest, 
And but more relished as the more 

distressed : 
The broadest mirth, unfeeling Folly 

wears, [tears: 

Less pleasing far than Virtue's very 
Good, from each object, from each 

place acquired. 
For ever exercised, yet never tired : 
Never elated, while one man's op- 
pressed ; 
Never dejected, while another's 

blessed ; 
And where no wants, no wishes can 

remain, 
Since but to wish more virtue, is to 

gain. 
See the sole bliss. Heaven could on 

all bestow I 
Which who but feels can taste, but 

thinks can know: 
Yet poor with fortune, and with 

learning blind. 
The bad must miss; the good, un- 
taught, will find; 



■132 



POPE. 



Slave to no sect, who takes no private 

road, 
Bnt looks throngli nature up to na- 
ture's God; 
Pursues that chain which links the 

immense design, 
Joins heaven and earth, and mortal 

and divine; 
Sees that no being any bliss can 

know. 
But touches some above, and some 

below; 
Learns from this union of tlie rising 

whole, 
The first, last purpose of the human 

soul ; 
And knows where faith, law, morals, 

all began, 
All end, in love of God and love of 

man. 



[From An Essay on CrUieism.'] 
TRUTH TO NATURE. 

FiusT follow Nature, and yoiu" judg- 
ment frame 

By her just standard, which is still 
the same ; 

Unerring Nature, still divinely bright. 

One clear, unchanged, and universal 
light. 

Life, force, and beauty, must to all 
impart. 

At once the source, and end, and 
test of art. 



\_From An Essay on CrUieism.] 
JUST JUDGMENT. 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece 
to see, 

Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor 
e'er shall be. 

In every work regard the writer's 
end. 

Since none can compass more than 
they intend; 

And if the means be just, the con- 
duct true. 

Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is 
due. 



As men of breeding, sometimes men 

of wit. 
To avoid great errors, must the less 

commit; 
Neglect the rules each verbal critic 

lays, 
For not to know some trifles is a 

praise. 



[From An Essay on Crificism.] 
JFIT. 

TiiUE wit is nature to advantage 

dressed ; 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so 

well expressed: 
Something, whose truth, convinced 

at sight we find, 
That gives us back the image of our 

mind. 
As shades more sweetly reconnnend 

the light. 
So modest plainness sets off sprightly 

wit. 
For works may have more wit than 

does them good. 
As bodies perish through excess of 

blood. 



[From An Essay on Criticism.] 
EXCESSIVE PRAISE OR BLAME. 

Avoid extremes; and shun the 

fault of such 
Who still are pleased too little or too 

much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence. 
That always shows great pride or 

little sense: 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not 

sure the best 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can 

digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn tliy rapture 

move : 
For fools admire, but men of sense 

approve : 
As things seem large which we 

through mist descry, 
Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 



PBESCOTT. 



433 



THE UyiVEliSAL PRAYER. 

Father of all! in every age, 

In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou great First Cause, least under- 
stood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that Thou art good. 

And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill; 
And binding nature fast in fate. 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

( )r warns me not to do. 
This, teach me more than hell to 
shun, 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty 
gives, 

Let ine not cast away ; 
For Goil is paid when man receives ; 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
\Vhen thousand worlds are round. 



Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
I'resume thy bolts to throw. 

And deal danniation round the land 
On each 1 judge Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If 1 am wrong, oh, teach my heart 

To find tha^ better way ! 

Save me alike from foolish pride. 

Or impious discontent, 
At avight Thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe. 

To hide the fault I see: 
That mercy 1 to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by Thy breath ; 

Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go. 
Through this day's life or death! 

This day, be bread and peace my lot: 

All else beneath the sun. 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 

And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all spaee. 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 

One chorus let all Being raise ! 
All Nature's incense "rise ! 



Mary N. Prescott. 



THE OLD STORY. 

By the pleasant paths we know 
All familiar flowers would grow. 

Though we two were gone; 
Moon anil stars would rise and set. 
Dawn the laggard night forget, 

And the world move on. 

Spring would carol through the wood, 
Life be counted sweet and good, 
Winter storms would prove their 

While the seasons sped ; [might. 
Winter frosts make bold to bite. 

Clouds lift overhead. 



Still the sunset liglits would glow, 
Still the heaven-appointed bow 

In its place be himg; 
Not one flower the less would bloom. 
Though we two had met our doom. 

No song less be sung. 

Other lovers through the dew 
Would go, loitering, two and two. 

When the day was done ; 
Lips would pass the kiss divine. 
Hearts would beat like yours and 
mine, — 

Hearts that beat as one. 



434 



PRESTON. 



TO-DAY. 

To-day the sunshine freely showers 

Its benediction where we stand ; 
There's not a passing cloud that 
lowers 
Above this pleasant summer land ; 
Then let's not waste the sweet to- 
day, — 
To-morrow, who can say '.' 

Perhaps, to-morrow we may be, — 
Alas! alas! the thought is pain, — 

As far apart as sky and sea. 
Sundered to meet no more again ; 

Then let us clasp thee, sweet to- 
day, — 
To-morrow, who can say ? 

The daylight fades ; a purple dream 
Of twilight hovers overhead. 



While all the trembling stars but seem 
Like sad tears yet unshed : 

Oh, sweet to-day, so soon away ! 
To-morrow, who can say '? 



ISouND asleep! no sigh can reach 
Him who dreams the heavenly 

dream ; 
No to-morrow's silver speech 
Wake him with an earthly theme. 
Summer rains, relentlessly, 
Patter where his head doth lie. 
There the wild rose and the brake 
All their summer leisiu-e take. 
Violets, blinded by the dew, 
Perfume lend to the sad rue. 
Till the day break fair and clear, 
And no shadow doth appear. 



Margaret Junkin Preston. 



EQUIPOISE. 

Just when we think we've fixed the 
golden mean. — 
The diamond point, on which to 

balance fair 
Life and life's lofty issues, weigh- 
ing there, 
With fractional precision, close and 

keen. 
Thought, motive, word and deed, — 
there conies between 
Some wayward circumstance, some 

jostling care. 
Some temper's fret, some mood's 
unwise despair, 
To mar the equilibrium, imforeseen, 
And spoil our nice adjustment ! — 
Happy he. 
Whose soul's calm equipoise can 
know no jar, 
Because the unwavering hand that 
holds the scales, 
Is the same hand that weighed each 
steadfast star, — 
Is the same hand that on the sa- 
cred tree [nails! 
Bore, for his sake, the anguish of the 



ouns. 

Most perfect attribute of love, that 
knows 
No separate self, — no conscious 

i»hic nor thine : 
But mystic union, closer, more di- 
vine [close. 
Than wedded soul and body can dis- 
No flush of pleasure on thy forehead 

glows. 
No mist of feeling in thine eyes can 
shine. 
No faintest pain surprise thee, but 
there goes 
The lightntng-spark along love's 
viewless line, 
Bearing Avith instant message to 
my heart, 
Besponsive recognition. Suns or 
showers 
May come between us; silences 
may part ; 
The rushing world know not, nor 

care to know ; — 
Yet back and forth the flashing 
secrets go. 
Whose sacred, only sesame is, o?()-.s- .' 



PRESTON. 



435 



XATURE'ti LESSOK. 

Pain is no longer pain when it is 
past ; 
And what is all the mirth of yes- 
terday, 
More than the yester flush that 
paled away, 
Leaving no trace across the landscape 
cast 
Whereby to prove its presence 
there '? The blast 
That bowed the knotted oak beneath 

its sway, 
And rent the lissome ash. the forest 
may 
Take heed of longer, since strewn 
leaves outlast 
Strewn sunbeams even. Be thoi^ like 
Nature then. 
Calmly receptive of all sweet de- 
lights. 
The while they soothe and strengthen 
thee: and when 
The wrench of trial comes with 
swirl and strain. 
Think of the still progressive days 
and nights, 
That blot with equal sweep, both 
joy and pain. 



GOD'S PATIENCE. 

Of all the attril)utes Avhose starry 
rays 
Converge and centre in one focal 

light 
Of luminous glory such as angels' 
sight 

Can only look on with a blenched 
a)naze, 
None crowns the brow of God with 
purer blaze, 

Xor lifts His grandeur to more infi- 
nite height. 

Than His exhaustless patience. Let 
us praise 

With wondering hearts, this strangest 
tenderest grace, 
Kemembering, awe-struck, that the 
avenging rod 

Of justice must have fallen, and mer- 
cy's plan 



Been frustrate, had not Patience 
stood between, 
Divinely meek: And let us learn 
that man. 
Toiling, enduring, pleading, — calm, 
serene, 
For those M'ho scorn and slight, is 
likest God. 



THE SHADOW. 

It comes betwixt me and the ame- 
thyst 
Of yon far mountain's billowy 
range; — the sky, 

Mild with sun-setting calmness, to 
my eye 
Is curtained ever by its haunting 
mist; 

And oftentimes when some dear 
brow I've kissed. 

My lips grow tremulous as it sweeps 
me by. 

With stress of overmastering agony 
That faith and reason all in vain 
resist. 

It blurs my fairest books ; it dims the 
page 
Of the divinest loi'c; and on my 
tongue 

The broken prayer that inward 
strength would crave, 

Dissolves in sobs no soothing can as- 
suage ; 
And this penumbral gloom. — this 
heart-cloud flung 

Aroimd me is, the memory of a grave. 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S GliAVE. 

A SIMPLE, sodded mound of earth. 

Without a line above it ; 
With only daily votive flowers 

To prove that any love it : 
The token flag that silently 

Each breeze's visit numbers. 
Alone keeps martial ward above 

The hero's dreamless slumbers. 

No name ? — no record ? Ask the 
world ; 
The world has read his story : — 



If all its annals can unfold 

A prouder tale of glory ; 
If ever merely human life 

Hath taught diviner moral, — 
If ever round a worthier brow 

Was twined a purer laurel ! 

A twelvemonth only, since his sword 

Went flashing through the battle, — 
A twelvemonth only, since his ear 

Heard war's last deadly rattle, — 
And yet, have countless pilgrim feet 

The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, 
And weeping women come to see 

The place where they have laid 
him. 

Contending armies bring in turn, 

Their meed of praise or honor. 
And Pallas here has paused to bind 

The cypress-wreath upon her: 
It seems a holy sepulchre. 

Whose sanctities can waken 
Alike the love of friend or foe — 

Of Christian or of pagan. 

But who shall weigh the wordless 
grief 
That leaves in tears its traces. 
As round their leader crowd again 
The bronzed and veteran faces ? 
The "Old Brigade" he loved so 
well — 
The mountain men, who bound 
him 
With bays of their own winning, ere 
A tardier fame had crowned him; 

The legions who had seen his glance 

Across the carnage flashing 
And thrilled to catch his ringing 
" cliarge " 

Above the volley crashing; — 
Who oft had watched the lifted hand, 

The inward trust betraying, 
And felt their courage grow sublime. 

While they beheld him praying! 

Eare fame ! rare name ! — If chanted 
praise, 

With all the world to listen, — 
If pride that swells a nation's soul, — 

If foemen's tears that glisten, — 



If ijilgrim's shrining love, — if grief 
Which naught may soothe or 
sever, — 

If these can consecrate, — this spot 
Is sacred ground forever! 



THERE'LL COME A DAY. 

There'll come a day when the 
supremest splendor 
Of earth, or sky, or sea, 
Whate'er their miracles, sublime or 
tender. 
Will wake no joy in me. 

There'll come a day when all the as- 
piration, 
Now with such fervor fraught , 
As lifts to heights of breathless exal- 
tation. 
Will seem a thing of naught. 

There'll come a day when riches, 
honor, glory. 
Music and song and art. 
Will look like puppets in a worn-out 
story. 
Where each has played his part. 

There'll come a day when human 
love, the sweetest 
Gift that includes the whole 
Of God's grand giving — sovereign- 
est. completest — 
Shall fail to till my soul. 

There'll come a day — I will not care 
how ]iasses 
The cloud across my sight. 
If only, lark-like, from earth's nested 
grasses, 
I spring to meet its light. 



THE TYRANNY OF MOOD. 

I. MORNING. 

It is enough: I feel, this golden 

morn, 

As if a royal appanage were mine. 

Through Nature's queenly warrant 

of divine |born, 

Investiture. What princess, palace- 



PRINGLE. 



431 



Hath right of rapture more, when 
skies adorn 
Tlieinselves so grandly; wlien the 

mountains sliine 
Transfigured ; when tlie air exalts 
like wine; 
When pearly purples steep the yel- 
lowing corn '? 
So satisfied with all the goodliness 
Of God's good world, — my being 
to its brim 
Surcharged with litter thankfulness 
no less [glad 

Than bliss of beauty, passionately 
Through rush of tears that leaves the 
landscape dim, — 
"Who dares," 1 say, "in such a 
world be sad '^ '' 

II. NIGHT. 

I PRESS my cheek against the win- 
dow-pane. 
And gaze abroad into the blank, 
black space 



Where earth and sky no more have 

any place, 
Wiped from existence by the expung- 
ing rain ; 
And as I hear the worried Minds 
complain, 
A darkness, darker than the mirk 

whose trace 
Invades the curtained room, is on my 
face. 
Beneath Mhicli, life and life's best 
ends seem vain. 
My swelling aspirations viewless 
sink 
As yon cloud-blotted hills: hopes 
that shone bright 
As planets yester-eve, like them to- 
night 
Are gulfed, the impenetrable mists 
before : 
"' O weary world!" I cry, "how 
dare I think 
Thou hast for me one gleam of 
gladness more ? " 



Thomas Pringle. 



AFAR IN THE DESEIiT. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent bush-boy alone by 
my side. 

When the sorrows of life the soul 
o'ercast, 

And, sick of the present, I cling to 
the past ; 

When the eye is suffused with regret- 
ful tears. 

From the fond recollections of former 
years ; 

And shadows of things that have 
long since fled 

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of 
the dead ; 

Bright visions of glory that vanished 
too soon; 

Day-dreams that departed ere man- 
hood's noon; [reft; 

Attachments by fate or falsehood 

Companions of early days lost or 
left — 



And my native land — whose magi- 
cal name 

Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 

The home of my childhood : the 
haunts of my prime: 

All the ])assions and scenes of that 
ra])turous time 

When the feelings were young, and 
the Morld was new, 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden un- 
folding to view; 

Ah — all now forsaken — forgotten — 
foregone! [none — 

And I — a lone exile remembered of 

My high aims abandoned — my good 
acts undone — 

Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 

AVith that sadness of lieart which no 
stranger may scan, 

I fly to the desert afar from man. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by 
my side, 




438 



FEINGLE. 



When the wild turmoil of this weari- 
some life, 

With its scenes of oppression, cor- 
ruption, and strife — 

The proud man's frown, and the base 
man's fear — 

The scorner's laugh, and the suffer- 
er's tear — 

And malice, and meanness, and 
falsehood and folly, 

Dispose me to musing and dark mel- 
ancholy ; 

When my bosom is full, and my 
thoughts are high. 

And my soul is sick with the bond- 
man's sigh — 

Oh! then there is freedom, and joy 
and pride. 

Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 

There is rapture to vault on the 
champing steed. 

And to bound away with the eagle's 
speed. 

With the death-fraught firelock in 
my hand — 

The only law of the desert land ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
AVith the silent bush-boy alone by my 

side, 
Away — away from the dwellings of 

men. 
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buf- 
falo's glen; 
By valleys remote where the oriby 

plays 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the 

hartebeest graze. 
And the kudu and eland unhunted 

recline 
By the skirts of gray forest o'erhimg 

with wild vine I 
Where the elephant browses at peace 

in his wood. 
And the river-horse gambols unscared 

in the flood. 
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows 

at will 
In the fen where the wild ass is 

drinking his fill. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my 
side. 



O'er the brown karroo, where the 

bleating ci-y 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plain- 
tively ; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill 

whistling neigh 
Is heard by the foimtain at twilight 

gray; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his 

mane. 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate 

plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the 

waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels 

in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scoojjed 

their nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's 

view 
In the pathless depths of the parched 

karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With tlie silent bush-boy alone by 

my side. 
Away — away — in the wilderness 

vast. 
Where the white man's foot hath 

never passed. 
And the quivered Coranna or Bech- 

uan 
Hath rarely crossed with his roving 

clan ; 
A region of emptiness, howling and 

drear. 
Which man hath abandoned from 

famine and fear; 
Which the snake and the lizard in- 
habit alone, 
W^ith the twilight bat from the yawn- 
ing stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub 

takes root. 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce 

the foot : 
And the bitter-melon, for food and 

drink. 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's 

brink; 
A region of drought, where no river 

glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; 



Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling 

fount, 
Xor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning 

sky, [round, 

And the blank horizon, round and 
iSpread — void of living sight or 

sound. 

And here, while the night-winds 
round me sigh, 



And the stars burn bright in the mid- 
night sky. 

As I sit apart by the desert stone, 

Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 

"A still small voice" comes through 
the wild 

(Like a father consoling his fretful 
child). 

Which banishes bitterness, wrath, 
and fear, — 

Saying — Man is distant, but God is 
near! 



Matthew Prior. 



[From Solomon.] 
THE WISE MAK IN DARKNESS. 

Happy the mortal man, who now at 
last 

Has through the doleful vale of mis- 
ery jiassed ; 

Who to his destined stage has carried 
on 

The tedious load, and laid his bur- 
dens down; 

Whom the cut brass or mounded mar- 
ble shows 

Victor o"er life and all her train of 
woes. 

He happier yet, who, iirivileged by 
fate 

To shorter labor, and a lighter 
weight, 

Eeceived but yesterday the gift of 
breath. 

Ordered to-morrow to return to 
death. 

But oh! beyond description, happiest 
he 

Who ne'er must roll on life's tumul- 
tuous sea ; 

Who with blessed freedom from the 
general doom 

Exempt, must never force the teem- 
ing womb, 



Nor see the sun, nor sink into the 

tomb. 
Who breathes must suffer ; and who 

thinks must mourn; 
And he alone is blest who ne'er was 

born. 



[From Solomon.] 
THE WISE MAN IN LIGHT. 

Supreme, all- wise, eternal Poten- 
tate! 

Sole Author, sole Dispenser of our 
fate! 

Enthroned in light and immor- 
tality! 

Whom no man fully sees, and none 
can see ! 

Original of beings ! Power divine ! 

Since that I live, and that I think, is 
Thine; 

Benign Creator, let Thy plastic hand 

Dispose its own effect. Let Thy com- 
mand 

Restore, great Father, Thy instructed 
son; 

And in my act, may Thy great will 
be done! 






440 



PROCTER. 



Adelaide Anne Procter. 



ONE BY ONE. 

One by one the sands are flowing, 
One by one the moments fall ; 

Some are coming, some are going. 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties wait thee, 
Let thy whole strength go to each, 

Let no future dreams elate thee. 
Learn thou lirst what these can 
teach. 

One by one (bright gifts from Heav- 
en) 

Joys are sent thee here below ; 
Take them readily when given, 

Eeady too to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet 
thee. 

Do not fear an armed band ; 
One will fade as others greet thee; 

Shadows passing through the land. 

Do not look at life's long sorrow; 

See how small each moment's pain, 
God will help thee for to-morrow, 

So each day begin again. 

Every hour that fleets so slowly 
Has its task to do or bear; 

Lmninous the crown, and holy. 
When each gem is set with care. 

Do not linger Avith regretting, 
Or for passing hours despond ; 

Nor, the daily toil forgetting. 
Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links, God's token. 
Reaching heaven ; but one by one 

Take thern, lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 



JUDGE NOT. 

Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
And of his heart thou canst not 
see; 



Wbat looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 

In God's pure light may only be 
A scar, brought from some well-won 

held, 
Where thou wouldst only faint and 

yield. 

The look, the air, that frets thy sight, 
May be a token, that below 

The soul has closed in deadly fight 
With some infernal fiery foe," 

Whose glance would scorch thy smil- 
ing grace. 

And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! 

The fall thou darest to despise, — 
May be the angel's slackened hand 

Has suffered it, that he may rise 
And take a firmer, surer stand ; 

Or, trusting less to earthly things. 

May hencefortli learn to use his 
wings. 

And judge none lost; but wait and 
see. 
With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 
The depth of the abyss may be 
The measure of the height of 
pain 
And love and glory that may raise 
This soul to God in after days ! 



THANKF ULNESS. 



My 



God, I tliank Thee who hast 
made 

The earth so bright; 
So full of splendor and of joy, 

Beauty and light; 
So many glorious things are here. 

Noble and right ! 

I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast 
made 

Joy to abound ; 
So many gentle thoughts and deeds 

Circling us round, 
That in the darkest spot of earth 

Some love is found. 



PROCTER. 



441 



I thank Thee more that all our joy 

Is touched with pain; 
That shadows fall on brightest hours ; 

That thorns remain ; 
So that earth's bliss may be oiu- 
guide. 

And not our chain. 

For Thou who knowest, Lord, how 
soon 

Our weak heart clings, 
Hast given us joys, tender and true, 

Yet all with wings, 
So that we see, gleaming on high. 

Diviner things ! 

I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast 
kept 

The best in store ; 
We have enough, yet not too much 

To long for more : 
A yearning for a deeper peace. 

Not kno^\■n before. 

I thank Thee. Lord, that here our 
soids 

Though amply blest, 
Can never find, although they seek, 

A perfect rest. — 
Xor ever shall, until they lean 

On Jesus' breast! 



A LOST CHORD. 

Seated one day at the organ, 
I was weary and ill at ease. 

And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I do not know what I was playing, 
Or what I was dreaming then ; 

But I struck one chord of music. 
Like the sound of a great Amen. 

It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the close of an angel's psalm. 

And it lay on my fevered spirit 
With a touch of infinite calm. 

It quieted pain and sorrow. 
Like love overcoming strife; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 



It linked all perplexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace. 
And trembled away into silence 

As if it were loth to cease. 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly. 

That one lost chord divine. 
That came from the soul of the organ, 

And entered into mine. 

It may be that death's bright angel 
AVill speak in that chord again. 

It may be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen. 



TOO LATE. 

Hush! speak low; tread softly; 

Draw the sheet aside ; — 
Yes, she does look peaceful; 

With that smile she died. 

Yet stern want and sorrow 

Even now you trace 
On the wan, worn features 

Of the still white face. 

Eestless, helpless, hopeless, 
Was her bitter part ; — 

Now, — how still the violets 
Lie upon her heart ! 

She who toiled and labored 

For her daily bread ; 
See the velvet hangings 

Of this stately bed. 

Yes, they did forgive her; 

Brought her home at last; 
Strove to cover over 

Their relentless past. 

Ah, they woidd have given 
Wealth, and home, and pride, 

To see her just look happy 
Once before she died ! 

They strove hard to please her, 
But, when death is near. 

All you know is deadened, 
Hope, and joy, and fear. 






And besides, one sorrow 
Deeper still, — one pain 

Was beyond thom : healing 
Came lo-day, — in vain! 

If she liad but lingered 
Just a few hours more; 

Or had this letter readied her 
Just one day before! 

I can almost pity 

Even him to-day ; 
Though he let this anguish 

Eat her heart away. 

Yet she never blamed him : — 
One day you shall know 

How this sorrow liappened ; 
It was long ago. 

I have read the letter; 

Many a weary year, 
For one word slie hungered, — 

There are thousands here. 

If she could but hear it. 
Could but understand ; 

See, — I put tlie letter 
In lier cold white hand. 

Even these words, so longed for, 

Do not stir her rest; 
Well, I should not murmur. 

For God judges best. 

She needs no more pity, — 

But I mourn his fate, 
When he hears his letter 

Came a day too late. 



CLEASSIXG FIRES. 

Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 

Tliy red gold, precious and briglit, 
Do not fear the hungry fire. 

With its caverns of burning light; 
And thy gold shall return more pre- 
cious, 

Free from every spot and stain ; 
For gold must be tried by fire, 

As a heart must be tried by pain I 



In the cruel fire of sorrow. 

Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail ; 
Let thy hand be firm and steady, 

Do not let thy spirit quail: 
But wait till the trial is over, 

And take thy heart again ; 
For as gold is tried by fire. 

So a heart must be tried by pain! 

I shall know by the gleam and glitter 

Of the golden chain you wear. 
By your heart's calm strength in lov- 
ing- 

Of the fire they have had to bear. 
Beat on. true heart, forever; 

Shine bright, strong golden chain; 
And bless the cleansing fire, 

And the furnace of living pain! 



A WOMAN- S QUESTIOX. 

Befoke I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 

Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine, 

Before I peril all for thee, 

Question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret: 
Is there one link within the past 

That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free 

As that which I can pledge to 
thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest 
dreams 
A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth 
breathe. 
Untouched, unshared by mine "' 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
Oh, tell me before all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 

AVitliin thy inmost soul. 
That thou hast kept a portion back. 

While I have staked tlie whole ; 
Let no false pity spare the blow, 

But in true mercy tell me so. 



PROCTER. 



443 



Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil ? 
One chonl that any other hand 

Could hetter wake or still ? 
Speak now, — lest at some future day 

My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 
The demon-spirit Change, 

Shedding a passing glory still 
Ou all things new and strange ? 

It may not be thy fault alone, — 
But shield my heart against thy 
own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one 
flay. 
iVnd answer to my claim, 
That fate, and that to-day's mistake. 

Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but 
thou 
Wilt surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. 
The words would come too late; 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So, comfort thee, my fate, — 

Whatever on my heart may fall, — 
Kemember, I vjould risk it all! 



IXCOMPLE TEN ESS. 

Nothing resting in its own complete- 
ness 

Can have worth or beauty : but alone 

Because it leads and tends to farther 
sweetness. 

Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. 

Spring's real glory dwells not in the 

meaning. 
Gracious though it be, of her blue 

hours ; 
But is hidden in her tender leaning 
To the summer's richer wealth of 

flowers. 

Dawn is fair, because the mists fade 

slowly 
Into day, which floods the world 

with light; 



Twilight's mystery is so sweet and 

holy 
Just because it ends in starry night. 

Childhood's smiles unconscious 

graces borrow 
From strife, that in a far-off future 

lies ; 
And angel glances (veiled now by 

life's sorrow) 
Draw our hearts to some beloved 

eyes. 

Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
Towards a truer, deeper life above ; 
Human love is sweetest when it lead- 

eth 
To a more divine and perfect love. 

Learn the mystery of progression 
duly: 

Do not call each glorious change, de- 
cay; 

But know we only hold our treasures 
truly, 

^Vhen it seems as if they passed 
away. 

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for in- 
completeness ; 

In that want their beauty lies : they 
roll 

Towards some infinite de^Jth of love 
and sweetness, 

Bearing onward man's reluctant 
soul. 



STRIVE, WAIT, AND PJiAY. 

Strive : yet I do not promise 

The prize you dream of to-day 
Will not fade when you think to 
grasp it. 

And melt in your hand away ; 
But another and holier treasure, 

You would now perchance disdain, 
Will come when your toil is over. 

And pay you for all your pain. 

Wait ; yet I do not tell you 
The hour you long for now 

Will not come with its radiance van- 
ished. 
And a shadow upon its brow ; 



Yet far through the misty future, 
With a crown of starry light, 

An hour of joy you Ivuow not 
Is winging her silent flight. 

Pray ; thougli the gift you ask for 
May never comfort yom* fears, 



May never repay your pleading, 
Yet pray, and with hopeful 
tears ; 

An answer, not that you long for, 
But diviner, will come one day; 

Your eyes are too dim to see it. 
Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 



Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). 



LIFE. 

We are born; we laugh; we weep; 

We love; we droop; we die I 
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die '? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

"Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil — through pain and wrong; 

We fight — and fly ; 
We love; we lose; and then, ere 
long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
O Life! is all thy song! 

'' Endure and — die?" 



A PETITION TO TIME. 

To ITCH US gently. Time! 

Let US glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Tlirough a quiet dream! 
Ilmnble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three — 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead!) 

Touch us gently, Time! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 



Humble voyagers are we. 
O'er life's dim unsounded sea. 
Seeking only some calm clime; 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 



LOVE ME IF I LIVE. 

Love me if Hive! y 

Love me if I die! 
What to me is life or death, 

So that thou be nigh ? 

Once I loved thee rich. 
Now I love thee poor; 

Ah ! what is there I could not 
For thy sake endure ? 

Kiss me for my love! 

Pay me for my pain ! 
Come ! and murmur in my ear 

How thou lov'st again! 



THE SEA. 

The sea! the sea! the open sea! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 
Without a mark, Avithout a bound, 
It runneth the earth's wide regions 

round ! 
It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the 

skies; 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue 

below. 
And silence wheresoe'er I go; 



PROCTER. 



445 



If a storm should come and awake 

the deep, 
What matter '^ I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh, lioio 1 love to ride 

On the tierce, foaming, bursting tide, 

When every mad wave drowns the 

moon. 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world Ijelow, 
And why the sou' west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
But I loved the great sea more and 

more. 
And backward flew to her billowy 

breast, [nest; 

Like a bird that seeketh its mother's 
And a mother she was, and is, to me; 
For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the 
morn. 

In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the wliale it whistled, the por- 
poise rolled, 

And the dolphins bared their backs 
of gold; [wild 

And never was heard such an outcry 

As welcomed to life the ocean child! 

I've lived since then, in calm and 

strife. 
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, 
With wealth to spend and a power to 

range, 
But never have sought nor sighed for 

change ; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me. 
Shall come on the wild, unbounded 

sea! 



HISTORY OF A LIFE. 

Day dawned: — within a curtained 

room. 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 

Day closed; — a child had seen the 

light; 
But, for the lady fair and bright, 
She rested in undreamintr night. 



Spring rose; the lady's grave was 

green ; 
And near it, oftentimes, was seen 
A gentle boy with thoughtfid mien. 

Years fled ; — he wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough 

race. 
And won at last a lofty place. 

And then he died ! Behold before ye 
Humanity's poor sum and story; 
Life, — Death, — and all that is of 
glory. 




A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 

Send down Thy winged angel, God ! 

Amid this night so wild; 
And bid him come where now we 
watch. 

And breathe upon our child ! 

She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
And moans within her sleep. 

Or wakeneth with a patient smile, 
And striveth not to weep. 

How gentle and how good a child 

She is. we know too well. 
And dearer to her parents' hearts 

Than our weak words can tell. 

We love — we watch throughout the 
night, 
To aid, when need may be; 
We hope — and have despaired, at 
times; 
But now we turn to Thee ! 

Send down Thy sweet-souled angel, 
God! 

Amid the darkness wild ; 
And bid him soothe our souls to-night. 

And heal our gentle child ! 



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 

How^ many summers, love, 

Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 



446 



PROCTOR. 



Time, like the winged wind 
Wlien 't bends the flowers, 

Hath left no mark behind, 
To covmt the hours I 

Some weight of thought, though loath, 

On thee he leaves; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget; — 

All else is flown ! 

All! — With what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring! 
With tongues all sweet and low 

Like pleasant rhyme. 
They tell how much 1 owe 

'i'o thee and time! 



SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 

Softly woo away her breath. 

Gentle death! 
Let her leave thee with no strife, 

Tender, mournful, murmuring life! 
She hath seen her happy day, — 

She hath had her bud and blos- 
som; 



Now she pales and shrinks away. 
Earth, into thy gentle bosom I 

She hath done her bidding here. 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her jjerfect soul above. 

Seraph of the skies. — sweet 
love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth: 

And her mind was seen to soar, 
And lier heart was wed to truth : 

Take her, then, forevermore. — 
Forever — evermore. — 



/ DIE FOB THY SWEET LOVE. 

I DIE for thy sweet love ! The ground 
Not panteth so for summer rain. 

As 1 for one soft look of thine ; 
And yet, — I sigh in vain ! 

A hundred men are near 'thee now : 
Each one, perhaps, surpassing 
me; 

But who doth feel a thousandth part 
Of what I feel for thee ? 

They look on thee, as men will look, 
AVho round the wild world laugh 
and rove; 

/ only think how sweet 'twould be 
To die for thy sweet love ! 



Edna Dean Proctor. 



BUT HE A VEX, O LORD, I CAN- 
NOT LOSE. 

Now summer finds her perfect prime ! 

Sweet blows the wind from west- 
ern calms ; 
On every bower red roses climb; 

The meadows sleep in mingled 
balms. 
Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, 

But lilies float and daisies throng. 
Nor space of blue and sunny sky 

That is not cleft with soaring song. 



O flowery morns, O tuneful eves. 

Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill! 
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered 
sheaves. 
The drifting snows on plain and 
hill. 
Alike to me, fall frosts and dews; 
But Heaven, O Lord. I cannot lose ! 

Warm hands to-day are clasped in 
mine : 
Fond hearts my mirth or mourning 
share : 



And, over lioi)e's horizon line. 

The futnre dawns, serenely fair; 
Yet still, though fervent vow denies, 

I know the rapture will not stay; 
Some wind of grief or doubt will 
rise 

And turn ray rosy sky to gray. 
I shall awake, in rainy morn. 

To find my heart left lone and 
drear ; 
Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn. 

I let my life burn on as clear 
Though friends grow cold or fond 

love woos ; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 

In golden hours, the angel Peace 

Comes down ami broods me with 
her wings: 
I gain from sorrow sweet release; 

I mate me with divinest things; 
When shapes of guilt and gloom 
arise 

And far the radiant angel flees, — 
My song is lost in mournful sighs. 

My wine of triumph left but lees. 
In vain for me her pinions shine. 

And pure, celestial days begin: 
Earth's passion-flowers 1 still must 
twine. 

Nor braid one beauteous lily in. 
Ah! is it good or ill I choose ? 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 

So wait I. Every day that dies 
With flush and fragrance born of 
June, 
I know shall more resplendent rise 
Where sunnner needs nor sun nor 
moon. 
And every bud on love's low tree. 
Whose mocking crimson flames and 
falls. 
In fullest flower I yet shall see 

High blooming by the jasper walls. 
Xay, every sin that dims my days. 
And wild regrets that veil the 
sun. 
Shall fade before those dazzling 
rays. 
And my long glory be begun ! 
Let the years come to bless or bruise ; 
Thy heaven, O Lord, I shall not 
lose! 



CONTOOCOOK RIVER. 

Of all the streams that seek the sea 
By momitain pass, or sunny lea, 
Now where is one that dares to vie 
With clear Contoocook, swift and 

shy? 
Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts 

born, 
The snows of many a winter morn. 
And many a midnight dark and still. 
Heaped higher, whiter, day by day, 
To melt, at last, with suns of May, 
And steal in tiny fall and rill, 
Down the long slopes of granite gray : 
Or, filter slow through seam and cleft, 
When frost and storm the rock have 

reft, 
To bubble cool in sheltered springs 
Wliei'e the lone red-bird dips his 

Avings, 
And the tired fox that gains its brink 
Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to 

drink. 
Aud rills and springs, grown broad 

and deep. 
Unite through gorge and glen to 

sweep 
In roaring brooks that turn and take 
The over-floods of pool and lake. 
Till, to the fields, the hills deliver 
Contoocook' s bright and brimming 

river ! 

O have you seen, from Hillsboro' 

town 
How fast its tide goes hurrying down. 
With rapids now, and now a leap 
Past giant boulders, black and steep. 
Plunged in mid water, fain to keep 
Its current from the meadows green ? 
But, flecked with foam, it speeds 

along ; 
And not the birch trees' silvery sheen. 
Nor the soft lull of whispering pines. 
Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low. 
Nor ferns, nor cardinal flowers that 

glow 
Where clematis, the fairy, twines. 
Can stay its course, or still its song; 
Ceaseless it flows till, round its bed, 
The vales of Ilenniker are spread. 
Their banks all set with golden grain. 
Or stately trees whose vistas gleam — 
A double forest in the stream; 



448 



PROCTOR. 



And, winding 'neath the pine- 
crowned hill 
That overhangs the village plain. 
By sunny reaches, broad and still, 
It nears the bridge that spans its 

tide — 
The bridge whose arches low and wide 
It ripples through — and should you 

lean 
A moment there, no lovelier scene 
On England's Wye, or Scotland's Tay, 
Would charm your gaze a summer's 
day. 

And on it glides, by grove and glen. 
Dark woodlands ami the homes of 

men. 
With now a ferry, now a mill: 
Till, deep and calm, its waters fill 
The channels round that gem of isles 
Sacred to captives' woes and wiles. 
And. gleeful half, half eddying back. 
Blend with the lordly Merrimac: 
And Merrimac whose tide is strong 
Rolls gently, with its waves along, 
Monadnock's stream that, coy and 

fair, 
Mas come, its larger life to share. 
And, to the sea, doth safe deliver 
Contoocook's bright and brimming 

river! 



DAILY DYING. 

Not in a moment drops the rose 
That in a summer garden grows: 
A robin sings beneath the tree 
A twilight song of ecstasy. 
And the red, red leaves at its fragrant 
heart, 
Trembling so in delicious pain. 
Fall to the ground with a sudden 
start, 
And the grass is gay with a crim- 
son stain ; 
And a honey-bee, out of the fields 

of clover. 
Heavily flying the garden over. 
Brushes the stem as it passes by, 
And others fall where the heart- 
leaves lie, 
And air and dew, ere the night is 

done. 
Have stolen the petals, every one. 



And sunset's gleam of gorgeous dyes 
Ne"er with one shadow fades away, 

But slowly o'er those radiant skies 
There steals the evening cold and 

gray, 
And amber and violet linger still 
When stars are over the eastern hill. 

The maple does not shed its leaves 
In one tempestuous scarlet rain. 
But softly, when the south wind 

grieves, 
Slow-wandering over wood and 

plain, 
One by one they waver through 
The Indian Summer's hazy blue. 
And drop, at last, on the forest 

mould. 
Coral and ruby and burning gold. 

Our death is gradual, like to these: 

AVe die with every waning day ; 
There is no waft of sorrow's breeze 
But bears some heart-leaf slow 

away ! 
Up and on to the vast To Be 
Our life is going eternally! 
Less of earth than we had last year 
Throbs in your veins and throbs in 
mine. 
But the way to heaven is growing 
clear, 
While the gates of the city fairer 

shine. 
And the day that our latest treas- 
ures flee, 
Wide they will open for you and 
me! 



HEROES. 

The winds that once the Argo bore 
Have died by Neptune's ruined 
shrines. 
And her hull is the drift of the deep 
sea-floor. 
Though shaped of Pelion's tallest 
pines. 
You may seek her crew on every isle 

Fair in the foam of ^Egean seas. 
But, out of their rest, no charm can 
wile 
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 




PROCTOR. 



449 



And Priam's wail is heard no more 
By windy Uion's sea-built walls; 
Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, 
Shonts, "O ye Gods! 'tis Hector 
falls!" 
On Ida's mount is the shining snow. 
But Jove has gone from its brow 
away ; 
And red on the plain the poppies 
grow 
Where the Greek and the Trojan 
fought that day. 

Mother Earth! Are the hei'oes 
dead ? 
Do they thrill the soul of the years 
no more ? 
Are the gleaming snows and the pop- 
pies red [yore ? 
All that is left of the brave of 
Are there none to fight as Theseus 
fought ? 
Far in the yoimg world's misty 
dawn ? 
Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor 
taught ■? 
Mother Earth! are the heroes 
gone '? 

Gone ? In a grander form they rise ; 
Dead ? We may clasp their hands 
in ours ; [eyes. 

And catch the light of their clearer 
And wreathe their brows with im- 
mortal flowers. 
Wherever a noble deed is done 
'T is the pulse of a hero's heart is 
stirred ; 
Wherever Right has a triumph won 
There are the heroes' voices heard. 

Their armor rings on a fairer field 
Than the Greek and the Trojan 
fiercely trod ; 
For Freedom's sword is the blade 
they wield. 
And the light above is the smile of 
of God. 



So. in his isle of calm delight, 

Jason may sleep the years away; 
For the heroes live and the sky is 
bright. 
And the world is a braver world 
to-day. 



TO MOSCOW. 

Across the steppe we journeyed, 

The brown, fir-darkened plain 
That rolls to east and rolls to west, 

Broad as the billowy main, 
When lo! a sudden splendor 
Came shimmering through the air, 
As if the clouds should melt and leave 

The heights of heaven bare, — 
A maze of rainbow domes and spires 

Full glorious on the sky. 
With wafted chimes from many a 
tower 

As the south-wind went by. 
And a thousand crosses lightly hung 

That shone like morning stars, — 
'Twas the Kremlin wall! 'Twas Mos- 
cow, — 

The jewel of the Czars ! 



SUNSET IX MO SCO IF. 

O THE splendor of the city. 

When the sun is in the west! 
Ruddy gold on spire and belfry, 

Gold on Moskwa's placid breast; 
Till the twilight soft and sombre 

Falls on wall and street and square, 
And the domes and towers in shadow 

Stand like silent monks at prayer. 

'Tis the hour for dream and legend: 

Meet me by the Sacred Gate ! 
We will watch the crowd go by us; 

We will stories old relate; 
Till the bugle of the barracks 

Calls the soldier to repose. 
And from off the steppe to northward 

Chill the wind of midnight blows. 



450 



QUARLES. 



Francis Quarles. 



THE WORLD. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there 

But noise to fill thy ear; 
Thy vain inquiry can at length but find 

A blast of murmin-ing wind : 
It is a cask that seems as full as fair. 

But merely tunned with air. 
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; 

The soul that vainly founds 
Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds; there's nothing in't: 

The spark-engendering flint 
Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first 

Dissolve and quench thy thirst, 
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast 

With smooth-faced calms of rest. 
Thou mayst as well expect meridian light 

From shades of black-mouthed night, 
As in this empty world to find a full delight. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; 

What if some flattering blast 
Of fatiTous honor should perchance be there. 

And whisper in thine ear ? 
It is but wind, and blows but where it list, 

And vanisheth like mist. 
Poor honor earth can give ! What generous mind 

Would be so base to bind 
Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ? 

She's empty; hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball 

For fools to play withal ; 
The painted film but of a stronger bubble, 

That's lined with silken trouble. 
It is a world whose work and recreation 

Is vanity and vexation ; 
A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, 

A quest-house of complaint. 
It is a saint, a fiend ; worse fiend when most a saint. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. 

AVhat's here to be enjoyed 
But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow. 

Drawn now and crossed to-morrow ? 
Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, 

Kevived with living death ? 
Fond youth, O Inuld thy hopes on surer grounds 

Than what dull flesh propovmds: 
Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds. 



ox MAK. 

At our creation, but the Worrl was 
said ; 
And M'e were made ; 
No sooner were, but our false hearts 
did swell 

With pride, and fell : 
How slight is man ! At what an easy 
cost 

He's made and lost I 



GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF THE 
DEAD. 

I MUST lament, Nature commands it 

so: 
The more I strive with tears, the 

more they How; 
These eyes have just, nay, double 

cause of moan ; 
They weep the common loss, they 

weep their own. 
He sleeps indeed; then give me leave 

to weep 
Tears, fully answerable to his sleep. 



How, how am I deceived I I thought 
my bed 
Had entertained a fair, a beauteous 
bride : 
Oh, how were my believing thoughts 

misled 
To a false beauty lying by my side! 
Sweet were her kisses, full of choice 
delight; [night: 

My fancy found no difference in the 
I thought they were true joys that 
thus had led 



My darkened soul, but they were 

false alarms ; 
I thought I'd had fair Rachel in my 

bed. 
But I had blear-eyed Leah in my 

arnas : 
How seeming sweet is sin when 

clothed in light. 
But, when discovered, what a 

loathed delight. 



OxV THE LIFE OF MAX. 

Our life is nothing but a winter's 

day; 
Some only break their fasts, and so, 

away : 
Others stay dinner, and depart full 

fed; 
The deepest age but sups and goes to 

bed: 
He's most in debt that lingers out 

the day ; 
Who dies betimes, has less ; and less 

to pay. 



OX DOVES AXD SERPEXTS. 

We must have doves and serpents in 

our heart; 
But how they must be marshalled, 

there's the art. 
They must agree, and not l)e far 

asunder ; 
The dove must hold the wily serpent 

under; 
Their natures teach what places they 

must keep. 
The dove can fly; the sei-pent only 

creep. 



452 



BALEIGH. 



Sir Walter Raleigh. 



Go, soul, the body's guest, 
Upon a thankless errand; 

Fear not to touch the best; 
The truth shall be thy warrant. 

Go, since I needs must die, 

And give them all the lie. 

Go, tell the court it glows, 
And shines like painted wood ; 

Go, tell the church it shows 
What's good, but does no good. 

If court and church reply. 

Give court and church the lie. 

Tell potentates, they live 
Acting, but oh I their actions 

Not loved, unless they give; 

Not strong, but by their factions. 

If potentates reply, 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of liigli condition, 
That nde affairs of state, 

Their purpose is ambition ; 
Tlieir practice only hate. 

Anil if they do reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell those that brave it most. 
They beg for more by spending. 

Who, in their greatest cost. 
Seek nothing but commending. 

And if they make reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

Tell zeal it lacks devotion ; 

Tell love it is but lust; 
Tell time it is but motion; 

Tell tlesh it is but dust: 
And wish them not reply, 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily wasteth ; 

Tell honor how it alters; 
Tell beauty that it blasteth; 

Tell favor that she falters ; 
And as they do reply, 
Give every one the lie. 



Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In fickle points of niceness ; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness: 

And if they do reply. 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell physic of her boldness; 

Tell skill it is pretension; 
Tell charity of coldness ; 

Tell law it is contention: 
And if they yield reply. 
Then give them still the lie, 

Tell fortune of her blindness ; 

Tell nature of decay ; 
Tell friendship of unkindness; 

Tell justice of delay: 
And if they do reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have not soundness, 

But vary by esteeming: 
Tell schools they lack profoundness, 

And stand too much on seeming. 
If arts and schools reply. 
Give arts and schools the lie. 

Tell faith it's fled the city; 

Tell how the country erreth; 
Tell manhood shakes off pity ; 

Tell virtue, least preferreth. 
And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
Although to give the lie, 

Deserves no less than stabbing; 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the soul can kill. 



THE SILENT LOrEli. 

Passions are likened best to floods 

and streams. 
The shallow murmur, but the deep 

are dumb ; 



BEAD. 



453 



So, when affection yields discourse, 

it seems 
Tlie bottom is but shallow whence 

they come ; 
They that are rich in words, must 

needs discover 
Tliey are but poor in that which 

maltes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my 
heart, 

The merit of true passion ; 
"With thinking that he feels no smart 

That sues for no compassion. 

Since, if my plaints were not to ap- 
prove 

The conquest of thy beauty, 
It comes not from defect of love, 

Bat fear to exceed my duty. 



For knowing not I sue to serve 
A saint of such perfection 

As all desire, but none deserve 
A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want relief 
Than venture the revealing; 

Where glory recommends the grief. 
Despair disdains the healing. 

Silence in love betrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty; 

A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then WTong not, dearest to my heart, 
My love for secret passion ; 

He smarteth most who hides his 
smart 
And sues for no compassion. 



Thomas Buchanan Read. 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

Up from the south at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The aifrighted air with a shudder 

bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chief- 
tain's door. 
The terrible grumble and rumble and 

roar. 
Telling the battle was on once more. 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester 

rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
Making the blood of the listener cold 
As he thought of the stake in that 

fiery fray, 
Witli Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester 

town, 
A good, broad highway, leading 

down ; 



And there, through the flash of the 

morning light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. 
As if he knew the terrible need. 
He stretched away with the utmost 

speed ; 
Hills rose and fell, — but his heart 

was gay. 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, 
tlunidering south 

The dust, like smoke from the can- 
non's mouth; 

Or the trail of a comet , sweeping 
faster and faster, [disaster. 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of 

The heart of the steed and the heart 
of the master 

Were beating, like prisoners assault- 
ing their walls, [calls; 

Impatient to be where the battle-field 

Every nerve of the charger was 
strained to full play, 

Witli Sheridan only ten miles away. 






Under his spurning feet, tlie road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And tlie landscape sped away behind, 
Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
And the steed, like a bark fed with 

furnace ire. 
Swept on, with his wild eyes full of 

fire; 
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's 

desire. 
He is snuffing the smoke of the roar- 
ing fray. 
With Sheridan only five miles away : 

The first that the General saw were 
the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating 
troops ; 

What was done, — what to do, — a 
glance told him both, 

And, striking his spurs with a terri- 
ble oath. 

He dashed down the line mid a storm 
of huzzas. 

And the wave of retreat checked its 
course tliere, because 

The sight of the master compelled it 
to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black 
charger was gray ; 

By the flash of his eye, and his nos- 
trils' play. 

He seemed to the whole great army to 
say, 

" I have brought you Sheridan all the 
way 

From Winchester down, to save the 
day!" 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on 

high. 
Under the dome of the Union sky. — 
The American soldier's Temple of 

Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's 

name 
Be it said in letters both bold and 

bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 
From Winchester, — twenty miles 

away! " 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within the sober realm of leafless 
trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy 
air; 
Like some tanned reaper, in liis hour 
of ease. 
When all the fields are lying brown 
and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their 
hazy hills. 
O'er the dmi waters widening in 
the vales, 
Sent down the air a greeting to the 
mills 
On the dull thunder of alternate 
flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all 
sounds subdued. 
The hills seemed further and the 
stream sang low. 
As in a dream the distant woodman 
hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled 
blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed 
with gold. 
Their banners bright with every 
martial hue, 
Now stood like some sad, beaten host 
of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held 
his flight ; 
The dove scarce heard its sighing 
mate's complaint; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the 
light. 
The village church-vane seemed to 
pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside 
crew, — 
Crew thrice. — and all was stiller 
than before ; 
Silent, till some replying warden blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard 
no more. 



READ. 



455 



Where erst the jay, within the elm's 
tall crest, 
Made garrulous trouble round her 
unriedged young ; 
And where the oriole hung her sway- 
ing nest, 
By every light wind like a censer 
SAVung ; — 

Where sang the noisy martens of the 
eaves. 
The busy swallows circling ever 
near, — 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind be- 
lieves. 
An early harvest and a plenteous 
year; — 

Wliere every bird which charmed the 
vernal feast 
IShook the sweet skimber from its 
wings at morn, 
To warn the reaper of the i-osy east : — 
All now was sunless, empty, and 
forlorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the 
quail, 
And croaked the crow through all 
the dreamy gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the 
vale. 
Made echo to the distant cottage 
loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon 
the bowers; 
The spiders moved their thin 
shrouds night by night. 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of 
flowers, 
Sailed slowly by, — passed noiseless 
out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless 
air, 
And where the woodbine shed upon 
the porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the year 
stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted 
torch, — 



Amid all this, the centre of the 
scene. 
The white-haired matron with mo- 
notonous tread 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her 
joyless mien 
Sat, like a fate, and watched the 
flying thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had 
walked with her. 
Oft supped, and broke the bitter 
ashen crust; 
And in the dead leaves still she heard 
the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the 
dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with 
summer bloom. 
Her country summoned and she 
gave her all ; 
And twice War bowed to her his 
sable plume, — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon 
the wall. 

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand 
that drew 
And struck for Liberty the dying 
blow ; 
Nor him who, to his sire and country 
true. 
Fell mid the ranks of the invading 
foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
went on, 
Like the low murmm- of a hive 
at noon ; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of 
the gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and 
tremulous tmie. 

At last the thread was snapped ; her 
head was bowed ; 
Life dropt the distaff through his 
hands serene: 
And loving neighbors smoothed her 
careful shroud. 
While Death and Winter closed the 
autumn scene. 



456 



BEAD. 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 

The maid who binds her warrior's 
sash 
With smile that well her pain dis- 
sembles, 
The while beneath her drooping lash 
One stari-y tear-drop hangs and 
trembles, [tear, 

Though Heaven alone records the 
And Fame shall never know her 
story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
As e'er bedewed the field of glory! 

The wife who girds her husband's 
sword, 
Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering 
word. 
What though her heart be rent 
asmider. 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
The bolts of death around him 
rattle. 
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er* 
Was poured upon the field of battle ! 

The mother who conceals her grief 
While to her breast her son she 
presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and 
brief, 
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses. 
With no one but her secret God 
To know the pain that weighs 
upon her, 
Sheds holy blood as e' er the sod 
Received on Freedom's field of 
honor ! 



DIUFTIXG. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away. 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bii'd afloat. 
Swims round the purple peaks re- 
mote : — 

Round purijle peaks 
It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 



Where high rocks throw, 
Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim 

The mountains swim; 
While, on Vesuvius' misty brim, 

With outstretched hands, 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Cajiri waits. 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; — 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie. 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child. 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring 
keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail ; 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never 
dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 



Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gambolling with the gambolling 
kid; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand be- 
guiled. 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where traffic blows. 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 



O happy ship, 

To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

In lofty lines. 

Mid palms and pines. 
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 

Sorrento swings 

On sunset wings, 
Where Tasso's spirit soars and 
sings. 



Richard Realf. 



MY SLAIN. 

This sweet child that hath climbed 
upon my knee. 
This amber-haired, fom'-summered 
little maid. 
With her imconscious beauty troub- 
leth me. 
With her low prattle maketh me 
afraid. 
Ah, darling! when you cling and 
nestle so 
You hurt me, though you do not 

see me cry, 
Nor hear the weariness with which 
I sigh 
For the dear babe I killed so long 
ago. 
I tremble at the touch of your 
caress : 
I am not worthy of your innocent 
faith; 
I, who with whetted knives of 
worldliness. 
Did put my own child-hearteduess to 
death ; 



Beside whose grave I pace forever- 
more, 

Like desolation on a shipwrecked 
shore. 

There is no little child within me now, 
To sing back to the thrushes, to 
leap up 
When June winds kiss me, when an 
apple-bough 
Laughs into blossoms, or a butter- 
cup 
Plays with the sunshine, or a violet 
Dances in the glad dew. Alas! 

alas! 
The meaning of the daisies in the 
grass 
I have forgotten; and if my cheeks 
are wet. 
It is not wath the blitheness of the 
child. 
But with the bitter sorrow of sad 
years. 
O moaning life ! with life irrecou- 
ciled ; 





458 



RICHARDSON. 



O backward-looking thought I O pain I 

O tears ! 
For us tliere is not any silver sound 
Of rhythmic wontlers springing from 

the ground. 

Woe worth the knowledge and the 
bookish lore 
AVhich makes men mummies; 
weighs out every grain 
Of that which was miraculous before, 
And sneers the heart down with 
the scotring brain ; 
AVoe worth the peering, analytic 
days 



That dry the tender juices in the 

breast, 
And put the thunders of the Lord 
to test, [praise, 

So that no marvel must be, and no 

Nor any God except Necessity. 
"What can ye give my poor stained 
life in lieu 
Of this dead cherub which I slew 
for ye ! 
Take back your doubtful wisdom and 
renew [dunce, 

My early foolish freshness of the 
AVhose simple instincts guessed the 
heavens at once. 



Charles F. 

AMENDS. 

Think not your duty done when, sad 
and tearful, 
Your heart recounts its sins, 
And praying God for pardon, weak 
and fearful. 
Its better life begins, 

Nor rest content when, braver grown 
and stronger. 
Your days are sweet and pure. 
Because you follow evil ways no 
longer, 
In Christ's defence secure. 

Bethink you then, but not with fruit- 
less ruing, 
— That bids the past be still. 
But what yovn- life has wrought to 
men's undoing. 
By influence for ill. 

Go forth, and dare not rest until the 
morrow. 
But, lest it l)e too late, 
Seek out the hearts whose weight of 
sin and sorrow 
Through you has grown more 
great. 

Take gifts to all of love and repara- 
tion. 
Or if it may not be, 



Richardson. 

Pray Christ, with ceaseless lips, to 
send salvation 
Till each chained soul be free. 



WORSHIP. 

Bkaa^e spirit, that will brook no in- 
tervention. 
But thus alone before thy God dost 
stand. 
Content if he but see thy heart's in- 
tention, — 
Why spurn the suppliant knee and 
outstretched hand ? 

Sweet soul, that kneelest in the sol- 
emn gloiy 
Of yon cathedral altar, while the 
prayer 
Of priest or bishop tells thine own 
heart's story, — 
Why think that they alone heaven's 
keys may bear ? 

Man worships with the heart; for 
wheresoever 
One burning pulse of heartfelt hom- 
age stirs. 
There God shall straightway find his 
own, and never 
In church or desert, miss his wor- 
shippers. 



ROBEBTS. 



459 



PA TIESCE. 

If, when you labor all the day, 
You see its minutes slip away 
With joy unfound, witli work undone, 
And hope descending with the sun, 

Then cheerily lie down to rest: 
The longest work shall be the best; 
And when the mori'ow greets your 

eyes, 
With strong and patient heart arise. 

For Patience, stern and leaden-eyed, 
Looks far where f utm-e joys abide ; 
Nor sees short sadness at her feet. 
For sight of triumpli long and sweet. 



IMITATIOX. 

Where shall we find a perfect life, 

whereby 
To shape our lives for all eternity '? 

This man is great and wise ; the world 
reveres him, 
Reveres, but cannot love his heart 
of stone ; 
And so it dares not folIo\\-, though it 
fears him. 
But bids him walk his mountain 
path alone. 

That man is good and gentle ; all men 
love him, 
Yet dare not ask his feeble arm for 
aid; 
The world's best work is ever far 
above him. 
He shrinks beneath the storm- 
capped mountain shade. 



O loveless strength! O strengthless 
love! the Master 
Whose life shall shape our lives is 
not as thou: 
Sweet Friend in peace, strong Saviour 
in disaster, 
Our heart of hearts enfolds thine 
image now ! 

Be Christ's the fair and perfect life 

whereby 
We shape our lives for all eternity. 



JUSTICE. 

A HUNDRED noble wishes fill my 
heart, 
I long to help each soul in need of 
aid; 
In all good works my zeal would have 
its part, 
Before no weight of toil it stands 
afraid. 

But noble wishes are not nol:)le 
deeds. 
And he does least who seeks to do 
the whole; 
Who works the best, his simplest 
duties heeds, 
Who moves the world, first moves 
a single soul. 

Then go, my heart, thy plainest work 
begin, 
Do first not what thou canst, but 
what thou must ; 
Build not upon a corner-stone of sin. 
Nor seek great works imtil thou 
first be just. 



Sarah Roberts. 



THE VOICE OF THE GliASS. 

Here I come creeping, creeping 
everywhere ; 
By the dusty roadside, 
On the sunny hill-side. 
Close by the noisy brook, 



In every shady brook, 
I come creeping, creeping eveiy- 
where. 

Here I come creeping, smiling every- 
where ; 
All around the open door. 



460 



ROGERS. 



Where sit the aged poor; 
Here where the children play, 
In the hright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping every- 
where. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
In the noisy city street, 
My pleasant face you'll meet, 
Cheering the sick at heart 
Toiling his busy part — 
Silently creeping, creeping everj^- 
where. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
You cannot see me coming. 
Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
For in the starry night. 
And the glad morning light, 

I come quietly creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
More welcome than the flowers 



In summer's pleasant hours; 
The gentle cow is glad, 
And the merry bird not sad. 
To see me creeping, creeping every- 
where. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
When you're numbered with the 

dead 
In your still and narrow bed, 
In the happy spring I'll come 
And deck your silent home — 
Creeping, silently creei)iug every- 
where. 

Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
where ; 
My humble song of praise 
]Most joyfully I raise 
To Him at whose command 
I beautify the land. 
Creeping, silently creeping every- 
where. 



Samuel Rogers. 



Si.r Poems entitled by the author, '•^Reflections." 

THE PEHVEIISION OF GREAT 
GIFTS. 

Alas, to our discomfort and his own, 

Oft are the greatest talents to be found 

In a fool's keeping. For what else 
is he, 

However worldly wise and worldly 
strong, 

Who can pervert and to the worst 
abuse 

The noblest means to serve the no- 
blest ends ? 

Who can employ the gift of elo- 
quence. 

That sacred gift, to dazzle and de- 
lude ; 

Or, if achievement in the field be his. 

Climb but to gain a loss, suffering 
how much. 

And how much more inflicting! 
Every where, 



Cost what they will, such cruel freaks 

are played ; 
And hence tlie turmoil in this world 

of ours, 
The turmoil never ending, still be- 
ginning, 
The wailing and the tears. — When 

Ccesar came. 
He who could master all men but 

himself, 
Who did so much and could so well 

record it; [part, 

Even he, the most applauded in his 
Who, when he spoke, all things 

summed up in him, 
Spoke to convince, nor ever, when 

he fought, 
Fought but to conquer, — what a life 

was his. 
Slaying so many, to be slain at last; 
A life of trouble and incessant toil, 
And all to gain what is far better 

missed! 



ROGERS. 



461 



HEART SUPERIOR TO HEAD. 

The heart, tlie^' say, is wiser tlian 

tlie schools: 
And well they may. All that is great 

in thouglit, 
That strikes at once as with electric 

tire, 
And lifts us, as it were, from earth 

to heaven. 
Comes from the heart; and who con- 
fesses not 
Its voice as sacred, nay, almost di- 
vine. 
When inly it declares on what we 

do. 
Blaming, approving ? Let an erring 

^\orkl 
Judge as it will, we care not while 

we stand 
Acquitted there; and oft, wiien 

clouds on clouds 
Compass us round and not a track 

appears. 
Oft is an upright heart the surest 

guide. 
Surer and better than the subtlest 

head ; 
ytill with its silent counsels through 

the dark 
Onward and onward leading. 



ON A CHILD. 

This child, so lovely and so cherub- 
like, 

(No fairer spirit in the heaven of 
heavens) 

Say, must he know remorse ? Must 
passion come. 

Passion in all or any of its shapes. 

To cloud and sully what is now so 
pure ? 

Yes, come it must. For who, alas! 
has lived, 

Nor in the watches of tlie night re- 
called 

Words he has wished unsaid and 
deeds undone ? 

Yes, come it nuist. But if, as we 
may hope. 

He learns ere long to discipline liis 
mind, 



And onward goes, humbly and cheer- 
fully. 

Assisting them that faint, weak 
though he be, 

And in his trying hours trusting in 
God,— 

Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ; 

For what was innocence will then be 
virtue. 



MAN'S RESTLESSNESS. 

Man to the last is but a froward 

child ; 
So eager for the future, come what 

may, 
And to the present so insensible ! 
Oh, if he could in all things as he 

would. 
Years would as days, and hours as 

moments, be; 
He would, so restless is his spirit 

here. 
Give wings to time, and wish his life 

away ! 



THE SELFISH. 

Oil, if the selfish knew how much 

they lost. 
What would they not endeavor, not 

endure, 
To imitate, as far as in them lay, 
Ilim who liis wisdom and his power 

employs 
In making others happy ! 



EXHORTATION TO MARRIAGE. 

Hence to the altar and with her 
thou lov'st. 

With her who longs to strew thy way 
with flowers; 

Nor lose the blessed privilege to give 

Birth to a race immortal as your- 
selves. 

Which trained by you, shall make a 
heaven on earth. 

And tread the path that leads from 
earth to heaven. 



462 



ROGERS. 



[From Human Li/'e.] 

THE PASSAGE FROM BIRTH TO 
AGE. 

And such is Human Life ; so, glid- 
ing on, 

It glimmers like a meteor, and is 
gone ! 

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as 
strange, 

As full, methinks, of wild and won- 
drous change. 

As any that the wandering tribes 
require, 

Stretched in the desert round their 
evening fire ; 

As any sung of old in hall or bower 

To liiinstrel-harps at midnight's 
witching hour! 
Born in a trance, we wake, ob- 
serve, inquire; 

And the green earth, the azure sky 
admire. 

Of elfin-size, — for ever as we rim. 

We cast a longer shadow in the sun! 

And now a charm, and now a grace 
is won! 

We grow in stature, and in wisdom 
too! 

And, as new scenes, new objects rise 
to view. 

Think nothing done while aught re- 
mains to do. 
Yet, all forgot, how oft the eyelids 
close. 

And from the slack hand drops the 
gathered rose ! 

How oft, as dead, on the warm turf 
we lie, 

While many an emmet comes with 
curious eye ; 

And on her nest the watchful wren 
sits by ! 

Nor do we speak or move, or hear or 
see; 

So like what once we were, and once 
again shall be ! 
And say, how soon, where, blithe 
as innocent. 

The boy at sunrise carolled as he 
went. 

An aged pilgrim on his staff shall 
lean, 



Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the 
green ; 

The man himself how altered, not 
the scene ! 

Now journeying home with nothing 
but the name; 

Wayworn and spent, another and 
the same ! 

No eye observes the growth or the 
decay. 

To-day we look as we did yesterday; 

And we shall look to-morrow as to- 
day. 



[From Human Life.] 
TRUE LWIOX. 

Then before all they stand, — the 
holy vow 

And ring of gold, no fond illusions 
now. 

Bind her as his. Across the thresh- 
old led, 

And every tear kissed off as soon as 
shed. 

His house she enters, — there to be a 
light 

Shining within, when all without is 
night ; 

A guardian-angel o'er his life presid- 
ing, 

Doubling his pleasures, and his cares 
dividing; 

Winning him back, when mingling 
in the throng. 

From a vain Avorld we love, alas, too 
long. 

To fireside happiness, and hom-s of 
ease 

Blest with that charm, the certainty, 
to please. 

How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle 
mind 

To all his v^ishes, all his thoughts 
inclined ; 

Still subject, — ever on the watch to 
borrow 

Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his 
sorrow. 

The soul of music slumbers in the 
shell. 

Till waked and kindled by the mas- 
ter's spell; 



ROGERS. 



463 



And feeling hearts, — touch them hut 

rightly, — pour 
A thousand melodies unheard before ! 



[From Human Life.] 
AGE. 

Age has now 

StamjDed with its signet that ingenu- 
ous brow: 
And. "mid his old hereditary trees. 
Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits 

and sees 
His children's children playing roiuid 

his knees : 
Then happiest, youngest, when the 

quoit is flung, 
AVhen side by side the archers' bows 

are strung; 
His to prescribe the place, adjudge 

the j)rize, [energies 

Envying no more the young their 
Than tliey an old man when his 

words are wise; 
His a delight how pm'e . , . with- 
out alloy; 
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in 

their joy I [repay 

Xow in their turn assisting, they 

The anxious cares of many and many 

a day ; 
And now by those he loves relieved, 

restored, 
His very wants and weaknesses afford 
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, 
Leaning on them, how oft he stops 

and talks, 
While they look up ! Their questions, 

their replies. 
Fresh as the welling waters, round 

him rise, 
Gladdening his spirit; and, his theme 

the past, 
How eloquent he is! His thoughts 

flow fast ; 
And, while his heart (oh, can the 

heart grow old ? 
False are the tales that in the world 

are told!) 
Swells in his voice, he knows not 

where to end; 
Like one discoursing of an absent 

friend. 



But there are moments which he 
calls his own. 

Then, never less alone than when 
alone. 

Those whom he loved so long and 
sees no more. 

Loved and still loves, — not dead, — 
but gone before. 

He gathers romid him; and revives 
at will 

Scenes in his life, — that breathe en- 
chantment still, — 

That come not now at dreary inter- 
vals, — 

But where a light as from the blessed 
falls, 

A light such guests bring ever, — pure 
and holy, — 

Lapping the soul in sweetest melan- 
choly ! 

— Ah, then less willing (nor the 
choice condemn) 

To live with others than to think of 
them I 



[From The Pleasures of Memory.] 
MEMOIi Y. 

Thou first, best friend that heaven 

assigns below 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares 

we know ; 
Whose glad suggestions still each 

vain alarm. 
When natm-e fades and life forgets 

to chann ; 
Thee woidd the Muse invoke! — to 

thee belong 
The sage's precept and the poet's 

song. 
What softened views thy magic glass 

reveals. 
When o'er the landscape time's meek 

twilight steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of 

day. 
Long on the wave reflected lustres 

play; 
Thy tempered gleams of happiness 

resigned 
Glance on the darkened mirror of 

the mind. 



464 



BOSSETTI. 



Hail, memory, hail ! in thy exhaust- 
less mine 

From age to age unnumbered treas- 
ures shine ! 

Thought and her shadowy brood thy 
call obey. 

And place and time are subject to 
thy sway ! 

Thy pleasures most we feel, when 
most alone; 

The only pleasures we can call our 
own. 

Lighter than air, hope's summer 
visions die. 

If but a fleeting cloud obscure the 
sky; 

If but a beam of sober reason play, 

Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts 
away! 

But can the wiles of art, the grasp of 
power 

Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent 
hour ? 

These, when the trembling spirit 
wings her flight, 

Pour round her path a stream of liv- 
ing light; 

And gild those pure and perfect 
realms of rest. 

Where virtue triumphs, and her sons 
are blest! 



[From The Pleasures of Memory.] 

THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

The school's lone porch, with rev- 
erend mosses gray. 
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where 
it lay. 



Mute is the bell that rung at peep of 

dawn. 
Quickening my truant feet across the 

lawn ; 
Unheard the shout that rent the 

noon-tide air, 
When the slow dial gave a pause to 

care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a 

tear, 
Some little friendship formed and 

cherished here; 
And not the lightest leaf, but trem- 
bling teems 
With golden visions and romantic 

dreams ! 



[From The Pleasures of Memory.] 
GUARDIAN SPIRITS. 

Oft may the spirits of the dead 

descend 
To watch the silent slumbers of a 

friend ; 
To hover round his evening walk 

unseen. 
And hold sweet converse on the dusky 

green ; 
To hail the spot where first their 

friendship grew, 
And heaven and nature opened to 

their view ! 
Oft, when he trims his cheerful 

hearth, and sees 
A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
There may these gentle guests de- 
light to dwell, 
And bless the scene they loved in 

life so well! 



Christina Georgina PxOssetti. 



UP-HILL. 

Does the road wind up-hill all the 
way ? 
Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole 
long day ? 
From morn to night, my friend. 



But is there, for the night a resting- 
place ? 
A roof for when the slow dark 
hoiu-s begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my 
fac-e ? 
You cannot miss that inn. 



BOSSETTI. 



465 



Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 

Those who have gone hefore. 
Then must I knock, or call when just 
in sight ? 
They will not keep you standing at 
the door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and 
weak ? 
Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all 
who seek ? 
Yea, beds for all who come. 



liEMEMBER. 

Kemembei: me when I am gone 
away, 
Gone far away into the silent land ; 
When you can no more hold me by 
the hand, 
Xor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. 
Remember me when no more day by 
day 
You tell me of our future that you 

planned ; 
Only remember me; you imdcr- 
stand (pi'Ay- 

It will be late to counsel then or 
Yet if you should forget me for a 
while 
And afterwards remember, do not 
grieve: [leave 

P'or if the darkness and corruption 
A vestige of the thoughts that once 
I had. 
Better by far you should forget and 
smile 
Than that you should remember 
and be sad. 



THE FIRST SPIilXG DA V. 

I WONDER if the sap is stirring yet. 
If wintry birds are dreaming of a 

mate, 
If frozen snowdro^os feel as yet the 

Sim 
And crocus fires are kindling one by 

one; 
Sing, robin, sing; 
I still am sore in doubt concerning 

spring. 



I wonder if the springtide of this 

year 
Will bring another spring both lost 

and dear; 
If heart and si^irit will find out their 

spring. 
Or if the world alone will bud and 

sing : 
Sing, hope, to me ; 
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for 

memory. 

The sap will surely quicken soon or 

late. 
The tardiest bird will twitter to a 

mate ; 
So spring must dawn again with 

warmth and bloom, 
Or in this world, or in the world to 

come : 
Sing, voice of spring, 
Till I too blossom, and rejoice and 

sinsr. 



SONG. 

Whex I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me ; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

iSTor shady cypress tree : 
Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet; 
And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on, as if in pain: 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set. 
Haply I may remember. 

And haply may forget. 



SOUND SLEEP. 

SoJiE are laughing, some are weep- 
ing; 

She is sleeping, only sleeping. 

Round her rest wild flowers are 
creeping ; 



^} 



466 



EOSSETTL 



There the wind is heaping, heaping, 
Sweetest sweets of summer's keeping, 
By the cornfields ripe for reaping. 

There are liUes, and there bhishes 
The deep rose, and there the thrushes 
Sing till latest sunlight flushes 
In the west; a fresh wind brushes 
Through the leaves while evening 
hushes. 

There by day the lark is singing 
And the grass and weeds are spring- 
ing; 
There by night the bat is winging; 
Tliere for ever Avinds are bringing 
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing. 

Night and morning, noon and even. 
Their sound fills her dreams witli 

Heaven : 
The long strife at length is striven: 
Till her grave-bands shall be riven, 
Such is the good portion given 
To her soul at rest and shriven. 



WIFE TO HUSBAND. 

Pakdon the faults in me, 
For the love of years ago : 
Good-bye. 
I must drift across the sea, 
I must sink into the snow, 
1 must die. 

You can bask in this sun, 
You can drink wine, and eat: 
Good-bye. 
I must gird myself and run. 
Though witii unready feet: 
I must die. 

Blank sea to sail upon, 
Cold bed to sleep in: 
Good-bye. 
Whil(> you clasp I must be gone 
For all your weeping: 
I must die. 

A kiss for one friend. 
And a word for two, — 
Good-bye : — 



A lock that you must send, 
A kindness you must do : 
I must die. 

Not a word for you. 
Not a lock or kiss, 
Good-bye. 
We, one, must part in two; 
Yerily death is this : 
I must die. 



AT HOME. 

WiiEi^ I was dead, my spirit turned 
To seek the much-frequented 
house ; 
I passed the door, and saw my friends 
Feasting beneath green orange 
boughs ; 
From hand to hand they pushed the 
wine. 
They sucked the pulp of plum and 
peach ; 
They sang, they jested, and they 
lauglied. 
For eacii was loved of each. 

I listened to their honest chat : 

Said one: " To-morrow we shall be 
Plod plod along the featureless sands, 

And coasting miles and miles of 
sea." 
Said one: "Before the turn of tide 

We will acliieve the eyrie-seat." 
Said one: '* To-morrow shall be like 

To-day, but much more sweet." 

" To-morrow," said they, strong with 
hope, 

And dwelt upon tlie pleasant way: 
" To-morrow," cried they one and all. 

While no one spoke of yesterday. 
Their life stood full at blessed noon; 

I, only I, had passed away : 
" To-morrow and to-day " they cried : 

I was of yesterday. 

I shivered comfortless, but cast 

No chill across the tablecloth; 
I all-forgotten shivered, sad 

To stay, and yet to part how loth: 
I passed from the familiar room, 

I who from love had passed away. 
Like the remembrance of a guest 

That tarrieth but a day. 



M 



ROSSETTL 



467 



Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



THE SEA-LIMITS. 

CoNSiDEH the sea's listless chime; 
Time's self it is, made audible, — 
The iniinmir of the earth's own 
shell. 
Secret continuance sublime 
Is the era's end. Our sight may 

pass 
Xo furlong farther. Since time 
was. 
This sound hath told the lapse of 
time. 

N"o quiet which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life, 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the M'orld's heart of rest and 
wrath, 
Its painful pulse is on the sands. 
Lost utterly, the whole sky stands 

Gray and not known along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea, 
Listen alone among the woods; 
Those voices of twin solitudes 
Shall have one sound alike to thee. 
Hark where the murmurs of 

thronged men 
Surge and sink back and surge 
again, — 
Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strewn beach. 
And listen at its lips; they sigh 
The same desire and mystery, 

The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
And all mankind is thus at heart 
Not anything but what thou art; 

And earth, sea, man, are all in each. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even; 

She had three lilies in her hand. 
And the stars in her hair were 
seven. 



Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service neatly woi'n ; 

Her hair tliat lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a 
day 

One of God's choristers; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers : 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

It was the rampart of God's house 
That she was standing on ; 

By God built over the sheer depth 
The which his space begun ; 

So high, that looking downward 
thence 
She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly, some of her new 
friends 

Amid their loving games 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames ; 

And still she bowed herself and 
stopped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she 
saw 
Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze 
still strove 
Within the gulf to pierce 



468 



SANQSTER. 



The path; and now she spoke as 
when 
The stars sang in their spheres. 

'* I wish that he M'ere come to me. 

For he will come," she said. 
"Have I not prayed in heaven? — 
on earth, 
Lord, Lord, lias he not prayed ? 
Are not two prayers a perfect 
strength ? 
And shall I feel afraid ? " 

She gazed and listened, and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

"All this is when he comes." She 
ceased. 
The light thrilled toward her, filled 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their 
path 

Was vague in distant spheres ; 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers 
And laid her face between her hands. 

And wept. (I heard her tears. ) 



LOST DAYS. 

The lost days of my life until to-day. 
What were they, could I see them on 

the street 
Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears 

of wheat 
Sown once for food but trodden into 

clay ? 
Or golden coins squandered and still 

to pay ? 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty 

feet ? 
Or such spilt water as in dreams 

must cheat 
The throats of men in hell, who thirst 

alway ? 
I do not see them here; but after 

death 
God knows I know the faces I shall 

see, 
Each one a murdered self, with low 

last breath: 
" I am thyself , what hast thou done 

to me '?" 
"And I — and I — thyself " — lo, each 

one saith — 
" And thou thyself to all eternity! " 



Margaret E. Sangster. 



OUR OWN. 

If I had known in the mornin^^ 

How wearily all the day [mind 
The words unkind would trouble my 

That I said when you went away, 
I had been more careful, darling. 

Nor given you needless jjain ; " 
But we vex our own with look and 
tone 

We may never take back again. 

For though in the quiet evening 

You may give me the kiss of peace, 
Yet it well might be that never for me 

The pain of the heart should cease I 
How many go forth at morning 

AVho never come home at night ! 
And hearts have broken forliarsh 
words spoken. 

That sorrow can ne'er set right. 



We have careful thought for the 
stranger. 

And smiles for the sometime guest ; 
But oft for our own the bitter tone, 

Though we love our own the best. 
Ah! lips with the curve impatient. 

Ah ! brow with the shade of scorn, 
'Twere a cruel fate, were the night 
too late 

To mado the work of the morn ! 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY. 

Because in a day of my days to 
come 
There waiteth a grief to be. 
Shall my heart grow faint, and my 
lips be dumb 
In this day that is bright for me ? 



SAROENT. 



469 



Because of a subtle sense of pain, 
Like a pulse-beat threaded through 

The bliss of uiy thought, shall 1 dare 
refrain 
From delight in the pure and true ? 

In the harvest fields shall I cease to 
glean 
Since the summer bloom has sped ? 
Shall I veil mine eyes to the noon- 
day sheen [fled ? 
Since the dew of the morn hath 

Nay, phantom ill with the warning 
hand 
Nay, ghosts of the weary past, 



Serene, as in armor of faith, I stand, 
You may not hold me fast. 

Your shadows across my sun may 
fall, 
But as bright the sun shall shine. 
For I walk in a light ye cannot 
pall. 
The light of the King Divine. 

And whatever the shades from day to 
day, 
I am sure that His name is Love, 
And He never will let me lose my 
way 
To my rest in His home above. 



Epes Sargent. 



SOUL OF MY SOUL. 

SouT. of my soul, impart 

Thy energy divine! 
Inform and fill this languid heart, 

And make Thy purpose mine. 
Thy voice is still and small. 

The world's is loud and rude; 
Oh, let me hear Thee over all. 

And be, through love, renewed. 

Give me the mind to seek 

Thy perfect will to know ; 
And lead me, tractable and meek. 

The way I ought to go. 
Make quick my spirit's ear 

Thy faintest word to hear; 
Soul of my soul ! be ever near 

To guide me in my need. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 

A LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep; 
Where the scattered waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep! 
Like an eagle caged, I pine 

On this dull, imehanging shore: 
Oh, give me the flashing brine. 

The spray and the tempest's roar! 



Once more on the deck I stand. 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 
Set sail! farewell to the land! 

The gale follows fair abaft, 
We shoot through the sparkling foam 

Like an ocean-bird set free ; — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We'll find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We'll say. Let the storm come 
down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be. 

While the winds and the waters 
rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 



FORGET ME NOT. 

" Forget me not ? " Ah, words of 
useless warning 
To one whose heart is henceforth 
memory's shrine! 
Sooner the skylark might forget the 
morning, 
Than I forget a look, a tone of 
thine. 






470 



SARGENT. 



Sooner the sunflower might forget 
to waken 
When the first radiance hghts the 
eastern hill, 
Than I, by daily thoughts of thee 
forsaken, 
Feel, as they kindle, no expanding 
thrill. 

Oft, when at night the deck I'm pac- 
ing lonely 
Or when I pause to watch some 
fulgent star. 
Will Contemplation be retracing only 
Thy form, and fly to greet thee, 
though afar. 

When storms unleashed, with fearful 
clangor sweeping, 
Drive our strained bark along the 
hollowed sea. 
When to the clouds the foam-topped 
waves are leaping. 
Even then I'll not forget, beloved 
one, thee! 

Thy image in my sorrow-shaded 

hours. 

Will, like a sunburst on the watei-s, 

shine; [flowers 

'Twill be as grateful as the breath of 

From some green island wafted 

o'er the brine. 

And O sweet lady, when, from home 
departed, 
I count the leagues between us with 
a sigh, — 
When, atthe thought, perchance a 
tear has started, 
May I not dream in heart thou'rt 
sometimes nigh? 

Ay, thou wilt, sometimes, when the 
wine-cup passes. 
And friends are gathering round in 
festal glee. 
While bright eyes flash, as flash the 
brimming glasses, 
Let silent Memory pledge one 
health to me. 

Farewell! My fatherland is disap- 
pearing [sight; 
Faster and faster from my baffled 



The winds rise wildly, and thick 
clouds are rearing 
Their ebon flags, that hasten on 
the night, 

Farewell! The pilot leaves us; sea- 
ward gliding. 
Our brave ship dashes through the 
foamy swell ; 

But Hope, lorever faithful and abid- 

iiig' 
Hears distant welcomes in this last 
farewel*! ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. 

I AVAKF,i> from slumber at the dead 
of night. 
Moved by a dream too heavenly 
fair to last — 
A dream of boyhood's season of de- 
light; 
It flashed along the dim shapes of 
the past; 
And, as I mused upon its strange 
appeal. 
Thrilling me with emotions unde- 
flned, 
Old memories, bursting from Time's 
icy seal. 
Hushed, like sun-stricken fountains 
on my mind. 
Scenes where my lot was cast in life's 
young day ; 
My favorite haunts, the shores, the 
ancient woods. 
Where, with my schoolmates, I was 
wont to stray ; 
Green, sloping lawns, majestic soli- 
tudes — 
All rose to view, more beautiful than 

then; — 
They faded, and I wept — a child 
again ! 



THE SPRING-TIME WILL RETURN. 

The birds are mute, the bloom is fled, 
Cold, cold, the north winds blow; 

And radiant summer lieth dead 
Beneath a shroud of snow. 

Sweet summer! well may we regret 
Thy brief, too brief sojourn ; 



SAB GENT. 



471 



But, while we grieve, we'll not forget, 
The spring-time will return ! 

Dear friend, the hills rise bare and 
bleak 
That bound thy future years ; 
Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak, 

No rainbow light appears; 
Mischance has tracked thy fairest 
schemes. 
To wreck — to whelm — to burn ; 
But wintry-dark though Fortune 
seems. 
The spring-time will return ! 

Beloved one! where no sunbeams 
shine 
Thy mortal frame we laid ; 
But oh, thy spirit's form divine 

Waits no sepulchral shade ! 
No, by those hopes which, plumed 
with light, 
The sod, exulting, spurn. 
Love's paradise sliall bloom more 
bright — 
The Spi'ing-time will return ! 



A SUMMER NOON AT SEA. 

A HOLY stillness, beautiful and deep, 
Keigns in the air and broods upon 
the ocean ; 
The \Yorn-out winds are quieted to 
sleep. 
And not a wave is lifted into mo- 
tion. 



The sea-bird skims along the glassy 
tide, 
With sidelong flight and wing of 
glittering whiteness, 
Or floats upon the sea, outstretching 
wide 
A sheet of gold in the meridian 
brightness. 

Our vessel lies, unstirred by wave or 
blast, 
As she were moored to lier dark 
shadow seeming. 



Her pennon twined around the taper- 
ing mast. 
And her loose sails like marble 
drapery gleaming. 

How, at an hour like this, the unruf- 
fled mind 
Partakes the quiet that is shed 
around us ! 
As if the Power tliat chained the im- 
patient wind 
With the same fetter of repose had 
bomid us ! 



TROPICAL WEATHER. 

Now' we're afloat upon the tropic sea: 
Here Summer holdeth a perpetual 
reign. 
How flash the waters in their bound- 
ing glee ! 
The sky's soft purple is without a 
stain. 
Full in our wake the smooth, warm 
trade-winds blowing. 
To their unvarying goal still faith- 
ful run ; 
And, as we steer, with sails before 
them flowing. 
Nearer the zenith daily climbs the 
sun. 
The startled flying-fish around us 
skim. 
Glossed like the humming-bird, 
with rainbow dyes ; 
And, as they dip into the water's 
brim. 
Swift in pursuit the preying dol- 
phin hies. 
All, all is fair; and gazing round, we 

feel 
Over the yielding sense the torrid 
languor steal. 



CUBA. 



What sounds arouse me from my 

slmnbers light ? 
'•'Land ho! all Jiands, ahoij!^' 

— I'm on the deck: 
'Tis early dawn: the day-star yet is 

bright ; 



mm 






A few white vapory bars the zenith 
fleclv; 
And lo! along the horizon, bold and 
high, 

The purple hills of Cuba ! Hail, all 
hail! 
Isle of undying verdiu'e, with thy 
sky 

Of purest azure! Welcome, odor- 
ous gale ! 



O scene of life and joy! thou art 

arrayed 
In hues of unimagined loveliness. 
Sing louder, brave old mariner! and 

aid 
My swelling heart its rapture to 

express ; [more 

For, from enclianted memory, never 
Shall fatle this dawn sublime, this 

fair, resplendent shore. 



MiNOT JuDSON Savage. 



PESCADERO PEBBLES. 

Where slopes the beach to the set- 
ting sun. 

On the Pescadero shore, 
For ever and ever the restless surf 

Rolls up with its sullen roar. 

And grasping the pebbles in white 
hands, 

And chafing theni together. 
And grinding them against the cliffs 

In stormy and sunny weather. 

It gives them never any rest; 

All day, all night, the pain 
Of their long agony sobs on. 

Sinks, and then swells again. 

And tourists come from every clime 
To search with eager care, 

For those whose rest has been the 
least : 
For such have grown most fair. 

But yonder, I'ound a point of rock, 
In a quiet, sheltered cove. 

Where storm ne'er breaks, and sea 
ne'er comes. 
The tourists never rove. 

The pebbles lie 'neath the sunny sky 

Quiet f oi'evermore ; 
In dreams of everlasting peace 

They sleep upon the shore. 

But ugly, and rough, and jagged still. 
Are they left by the passing years ; 



For they miss the beat of angry 
storms, 
And the sm-f that drips in tears. 

The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea 
Tm-ns the pebble to beauteous gem, 

They who escape the agony 
Miss also the diadem. 



LIFE IN DEATH. 

New being is from being ceased ; 

No life is but by death ; 
Something's expiring everywhere 

To give some other breath. 

There's not a flower that glads the 
spring 

I}ut blooms upon the grave 
Of its dead i)arent seed, in which 

Its forms of beauty wave. 

The oak, that like an ancient tower 
Stands massive on the heath. 

Looks out upon a living world. 
But strikes its roots in death. 

The cattle on a thousand hills 
Clip tlie sweet buds that grow 

Rank from the soil enriched by herds 
Sleeping long years below. 

To-day is but a structure built 

Upon dead yesterday ; 
And Progress hews her temple-stones 

From wrecks of old decay. 



SAXE. 



473 



Then monrn not death ; 'tis but a stair 

Built with divinest art, 
Up which the deathless footsteps 
climb 

Of loved ones who depart. 



LIGHT ON THE CLOUD. 

There's never an always cloudless 
sky, 

There's never a vale so fair, 
But over it sometimes shadows lie 

In a chill and songless air. 

But never a cloud o'erhung the day. 

And flung its shadows down. 
But on its heaven-side gleamed some 
ray 

Forming a sunshine crown. 



It is dark on only the downward side ; 

Though rage the tempest loud, 
And scatter its terrors far and wide. 

There's light upon the cloud. 

And often, when it traileth low, 
Shutting the landscajje out. 

And only the chilly east-winds blow 
From the foggy seas of doubt. 

There'll come a time, near the setting 
sun. 
When the joys of life seem few, 
A rift will break in the evening dim, 
And the golden light stream 
through. 

And the soul a glorious bridge will 
make 

Out of the golden bars. 
And all its priceless treasures take 

Where shine the eternal stars. 



John Godfrey Saxe. 



THE OLD MAX'S MOTTO. 

" Give me a motto," said a youth 
To one whom years had rendered 
wise ; 
*' Some pleasant thought, or weighty 
truth. 
That briefest syllables comprise ; 
Some word'^of warning or of cheer 
To grave upon my signet here. 

"And, reverend father," said the 
boy, 
" Since life, they say, is ever made 
A mingled web of grief and joy ; 
Since cares may come and pleas- 
ures fade, — 
Pray, let the motto have a range 
Of meaning matching every change." 

"Sooth!" said the sire. " methinks 
you ask 

A labor something over-nice. 
That well a finer brain might task. 

What think you. lad, of this device 
(Older than I, though I am gray). 
'Tis simple, — ' This will pass away.' 



" When wafted on by Fortune's 
breeze. 
In endless peace thou seem'st to 
glide, 
Prepare betimes for rougher seas, 
And check the boast of foolish 
pride ; 
Though smiling joy is thine to-day. 
Remember, ' This will pass away ! ' 

" When all the sky is draped in black, 
And, beaten by tempestuous gales. 

Thy shuddering ship seems all a- 
wrack. 
Then trim again thy tattered sails ; 

To grim Despair be not a prey; 

Betiaink thee, ' This will pass away.' 

" Thus, O my son, be not o'er-proud. 
Nor yet cast down; judge thou 
aright ; 
When skies are clear, expect the 
cloud ; 
In darkness, wait the coming light; 
Whatever be thy fate to-day. 
Remember, ' This will pass away!' " 



474 



SAXE. 



I'M GROWING OLD. 

My days pass pleasantly away; 
My nights are blest with sweetest 
sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay; 

I liave no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy ; 
My friends are neither false nor 
cold. 
And yet, of late, I often sigh, — 
I'm growing old! 

My growing talk of olden times, 
My growing thirst for early news, 

My growing apathy to rhymes. 
My growing love of easy shoes. 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My growing fear of taking cold. 

All whisper, in the plainest voice, 
I'm growing old! 

I'm growing fonder of my staff; 

I'm growing dimmer in the eyes; 
I'm growing fainter in my laugh; 

I'm growing deeper in my sighs; 
I'm growing careless of my dress; 
I'm growing frugal of my gold; 
I'm growing wise; I'm growing, — 
yes,— 

I'm growing old! 

I see it in my changing taste; 

I see it in my changing hair; 
I see it in my growing waist; 

I see it in my growing heir; 
A thousand signs proclaim the truth. 

As plain as truth was ever told. 
That, even in my vaunted youth 
I'm growing old. 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
The tale in my reluctant ears. 
And every boon the Hours bequeath 
But makes me debtor to the Years I 
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare 
The secret she would fain withhold ; 
And tells me in " How young you 
are!" 

I'm growing old. 

Thanks for the years ! — whose rapid 
flight 
My sombre Muse too sadly sings ; 



Thanks for the gleams of golden 
light 
That tint the darkness of their 
wings ; 
The light that beams from out the 
sky. 
Those heavenly mansions to unfold 
Where all are blest, and none may 
sigh, 

"I'm growing old!" 



SOMEWHERE. 

Somewhere — somewhere a happy 

clime there is, 
A land that knows not unavailing 

woes, 
^Yhere all the clashing elements of 

this 
Discordant scene are hvished in 

deep repose. 
Somewhere — somewhere (ah me, 

that land to win!) 
In some bright realm, beyond the 

farthest main. 
Where trees of knowledge bear no 

fruit of sin. 
And buds of pleasure blossom not in 

pain. 
Somewhere — somewhere an end of 

mortal strife 
With our immortal yearnings ; nev- 
ermore 
The outer warring with the inner life 
Till both are wretched! Ah, that 

happy shore ! 
Where shines for aye the soul's reful- 
gent sun, 
And life is love, and love and joy are 

one! 



LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER. 

Beneath the hill you may see the 
mill 
Of wasting wood and crumbling 
stone ; 
The wheel is dripping and clattering 
still. 
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and 
gone. 



Year after year, early and late, 

Alike in summer and winter 
weather, 
He pecked the stones and calked the 
gate. 
And mill and miller grew old to- 
gether. 

"Little Jerry I" — 'twas all the 
same, — 
They loved him well who called 
him so; 
And whether he'd ever another name, 
Nobody ever seemed to know. 

'Twas, "Little Jerry, come grind my 
rye"; 
And '• Little Jerry, come grind my 
wheat " ; 
And "Little Jerry" was still the 
cry, 
From matron bold and maiden 
sweet. 

'Twas, "Little Jerry" on every 
tongue, 
And so the simple truth was told ; 
For Jerry was little when he was 
young. 
And Jerry was little whon he was 
old. 

But what in size he chanced to lack. 
That Jerry made up in being strong ; 

I've seen a sack upon his back 
As thick as the miller, and quite as 
long. 

Always busy, and always merry, 
Always doing his very best, 

A notable wag was little Jerry, 

Who uttered well his standing jest. 

How Jerry lived is known to fame. 
But how he died there's none may 
know ; 
One autumn day the rumor came, 
"The brook and Jerry are very 
low." 

And then 'twas whispered, mourn- 
fully, • 
The leech had come, and he was 
dead ; 



And all the neighbors flocked to see; 
"Poor little Jerry!" was all they 
said. 

They laid him in his earthly bed, — 
His miller's coat his only shroud; 

" Dust to dust," the parson said. 
And all the people wept aloud. 

For he had shunned the deadly sin, 
And not a grain of over-toll 

Had ever dropped into his bin, 
To weigh upon his parting soul. 

Beneath the hill there stands the mill , 

Of wasting wood and crumbling 

stone; [still, 

The wheel is dripping and clattering 

But Jerry, the miller, is dead and 

gone. 



WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW? 
A MADUIUAL. 

I KNOW a girl with teeth of pearl. 
And shoulders white as snow; 

She lives, — ah! well, 

I must not tell, — 
Wouldn't you like to know ? 

Her sunny hair is wondrous fair, 
And wavy in its flow ; 

Who made it less 

One little tress. — 
Wouldn't you like to know ? 

Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!) 
And dazzling in their glow; 

On whom they beam 

With meltiiag gleam, — 
Wouldn' t you like to know ? 

Her lips are red and finely wed, 
Like roses ere they blow ; 

What lover sips 

Those dewy lips, — 
Wouldn't you like to know ? 

Her fingers are like lilies fair 
When lilies fairest grow ; 

Whose hand they press 

With fond caress, — 
Wouldn't you like to know ? 




476 



SCOTT. 



Her foot is small, and has a fall 
Like snow-flakes on the snow; 

And where it goes 

Beneath the rose, — 
Wouldn't you like to know '? 

She has a name, the sweetest name 
That language can bestow. 

'Twould break the spell 

If I should tell, — 
Wouldn't you like to know ? 



but 



TREASURE IN HEAVEN. 

Every coin of earthly treasure 

We have lavished, upon earth, 
For our simple worldly pleasure. 

May be reckoned something worth ; 
For the spending was not losing, 

Though the purchase were 
small; 
It has perished with the using; 

We have had it, — that is ail ! 

All the gold we leave behind us 

When we turn to dust again 
(Though our avarice may blind us), 

We have gathered quite in vain ; 
Since we neither can direct it. 

By the winds of fortune tossed, 
Nor in other worlds expect it; 

What we hoarded, we have lost. 



But each merciful oblation — 

(Seed of pity wisely sown). 
What we gave in self-negation, 

We may safely call our own ; 
For the treasure freely given 

Is the treasure that we hoard, 
Since the angels keep in Heaven 

What is lent unto the Lord I 



TO MY LOVE. 



' Da mi basia. 



-Catullus. 



Kiss me softly, and speak to me 
low; 
Malice has ever a vigilant ear; 
What if Malice were lurking near? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; " 
Envy too has a watchful ear ; 
What if Envy should chance to hear? 
Kiss me, dear! 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When we may love with never a 
fear ; 

Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 



Sir Walter Scott. 



[From The Lady of the Lake.] 
S UMMER DA WN A T LOCH KA TRINE. 

The summer dawn's reflected hue 
To purple changed Loch Katrine 

blue ; 
Mildly and soft the western breeze 
Just kissed the lake, just stirred the 

trees. 
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
Trembled but dimpled not for joy; 
The mountain shadows on her breast 
Were neither broken nor at rest ; 



In bright vnicertainty they lie. 
Like future joys to Fancy's eye. 
The water-lily to the light 
Her chalice reared of silver bright; 
The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her 

fawn ; 
gray mist left the mountain 

side, 

torrent showed its glistening 

pride ; 
Invisible in flecked sky, 
The lark sent down her revelry ; 



The 



The 




A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS. 



Page 477. 



SCOTT. 



477 



The blackbird and the speckled 

thrush 
Good-morrow gave from brake and 

bush : 
In answer cooed the cushat dove 
Her notes of peace, and rest, and 

love. 



IFrom The Lady of the Lake.] 
A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

The western waves of ebbing day- 
Rolled o'er the glen their level way; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living hre, 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below, 
Where twined the path in shadow 

hid, 
Round many a rocky pyramid. 
Shooting abruptly from the dell 
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; 
Round many an insulated mass, 
The native bulwarks of the pass, 
Huge as the tower which builders 

vain 
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
The rocky summit, split and rent. 
Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
Or seemed fantastically set 
With cupola or minaret. 
Wild crests as pagod ever decked 
Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
Nor were these earth-born castles 

bare. 
Nor lacked they many a banner fair; 
For, from tlieir shivered brows dis- 
played. 
Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 
All twinkling with the dewdrops 

sheen. 
The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 
And creeping shrubs, of thousand 

dyes. 
Waved in the west-wind's summer 

sighs. 

Boon nature scattered, free and wild. 
Each plant or flower, the mountain's 

child. 
Here eglantine embalmed the air. 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
The primrose pale and violet flower. 
Found in each cliff a narrow bower; 



Fox-glove and night-shade, side by 

side. 
Emblems of punishment and pride. 
Grouped their dark hues with every 

stain 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every 

breath, 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
Aloft the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anclior in the rifted rock ; 
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shattered trunk, and frequent 

flung, 
Where seemed the cliffs to meet on 

high. 
His boughs athwart the narrowed 

sky. 
Highest of all, where white peaks 

glanced. 
Where glist'ning streamers waved 

and danced. 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might 

seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 



IFrom The Lady of the Lake.} 
A PICTURE OF ELLEN. 

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
Of finer form, or lovelier face! 
What though the sun, with ardent 

frown, 
Had slightly tinged her cheek with 

brown, — 
The sportive toil, which, short and 

light, 
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 
Served too in hastier swell to show 
Short glimpses of a breast of snow: 
What though no rule of courtly 

grace 
To measured mood had trained her 

pace, — 
A foot more light, a step more true. 
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed 

the dew ; 
E'en the slight harebell raised its 

head, 
Elastic from her airy tread ; 



478 



SCOTT. 



What though upon her speech there 

hung 
The accents of her mountain 

tongue, — 
Those silver sounds so soft, so dear, 
The hstener held his hreath to hear! 



\_From The Lady of the Lake.'] 
PATERNAL LOVE. 

Some feelings are to mortals given, 
With less of earth in them than 

heaven: 
And if there be a human tear 
From passion's dross reiined and 

clear, 
A tear so limpid and so meek. 
It would not stain an angel's cheek, 
'Tis that which pious fathers shed 
Upon a duteous daughter's head! 



[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 

MELROSE ABBEY BY MOOX- 
LIGHT. 

If thou would' St view fair Melrose 

aright. 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
When the broken arches are black in 

night. 
And each shafted oriel glimmers 

white ; 
When the cold light's imcertain 

shower 
Streams on tlie ruined central tower; 
When buttress and butti-ess, alter- 
nately, 
Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
When silver edges the imagery. 
And the scrolls that teach thee to 

live and die; 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave. 
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead 

man's grave. 
Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruined pile; 
And, home returning, soothly swear, 
Was never scene so sad and fair! 



[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 
LOVE. 

In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's 

reed ; 
In war he mounts the warrior's steed ; 
In halls, in gay attire is seen; 
In hamlets, dances on the green. 
Love rules the court, the camp, the 

grove. 
And men below, and saints above ; 
For love is heaven, and heaven is 

love. 

True love's the gift which God has 

given 
To man alone beneath the heaven ; 
It is not fantasy's hot fire. 
Whose wishes, soon as gi'anted 

fly; 

It livetli not in fierce desire. 
With dead desire it doth not die; 
It is the secret sympathy, 
The silver link, the silken tie, 
AVhich heart to heart, and mind to 

mind. 
In body and in soul can bind. 



[From- The Lay <f the Last Minstrel.] 
BREATHES' THERE THE MAX. 

Br.EATHES there the man, with soul 

so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own. my native land! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him 

burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned. 
From wandering on a foreign 

strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him 

well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his 

name, [claim; 

Boundless his wealth as wish can 
Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he 

sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 



SCOTT. 



479 



O Caledonia! stern and wild. 
Meet nurse for a poetic child! 
Land of brown heath and shaggy 

wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood, 
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
Can e'er untie the filial band. 
That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
Still, as I view each well-known 

scene. 
Think what is now, and what hath 

been. 
Seems, as to me, of all bereft, 
Sole friends thy woods and streams 

were left; 
And thus I love them better still 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's stream still let me 

stray, 
Though none should guide my feeble 

way; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick 

break, 
Although it chill my withered cheek ; 
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone. 
The bard may draw his parting 

groan. 



[ From Ivanhoe.} 
REBECCA'S HYMN. 

Whex Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of Ijondage came. 
Her fathers' God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day. along the astonished lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 
And trump and timbrel answered 
keen. 
And Zion's daughters poured their 
lays, [tween. 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
No portents now our foes amaze. 
Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
Our fathers would not know Thy 
ways, 
And Thou hast left them to their 
own. 



But present still, though now un- 
seen! 
When brightly shines the prospei'- 
ous day. 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And, oh, when stoops on Judah's 
path 
In shade and storm the frequent 
night. 
Be Thou, long suffering, slow to 
wrath, 
A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's 
scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams. 
And mute are timbrel, harp, and 
horn. 
But Thou hast said. The blood of 
goat, 
The flesh of rams I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 



[From RecUjauntlet.'] 

PAYMENT IN STORE. 

As lords their laborers' hire delay. 
Fate quits our toil with hopes to 
come. 
Which, if far short of present pay, 
. Still owns a debt and names a sum. 

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, 
then. 

Although a distant date be given; 
Despair is treason towards men, 

And blasphemy to Heaven. 



\_From The Betrothed.] 
FAITH IN VNFAITH. 

Woman's faith and woman's trust — 
Write the cliaracters in dust: 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon's pale beam, 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 
And more permanent, I ween, 
Than the thing those letters mean. 



480 



SCOTT. 



I have strained the spider's thread 
'Gainst the promise of a maid; 
I have weighed a grain of sand 
'Gainst her pHght of heart and hand; 
I told my true love of the token 
How her faith proved light and her 

Avord was broken ; 
Again her word and truth she plight, 
And I believed them again ere night. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

All joy was bereft me the day that 

you left me, 

And climbed the tall vessel to sail 

yon high sea; [it, 

O weary betide it! I wandered beside 

And banned it for parting my 

Willie and me. 

Far o'er the wave hast thou followed 
thy fortune. 
Oft fought the squadrons of France 
and of .Spain ; 
Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at 
l^arting, 
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 

When the sky it was mirk, and the 
winds they were wailing, 
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in 
my ee. 
And thought of the bark where my 
Willie was sailing. 
And wished that the tempest could 
a' blaw on me. 

Now that thy gallant ship rides at 
her moorings. 
Now that my wanderer's in safety 
at hanie. 
Music to me were the wildest winds' 
roaring. 
That e'er o'er Inch- Keith drove the 
dark ocean faem. 

When the lights they did blaze, and 

the guns they did rattle, 

And blithe was each heart for the 

great victory, [battle. 

In secret I wept for the dangers of 

And thy glory itself was scarce com- 

foi't for me. 



But now shalt thou tell, while I ea- 
gerly listen, 
Of each bold adventure, and every 
brave scar; 
And trust me, I'll smile, though my 
een they may glisten ; 
For sweet after danger's the tale of 
the war. 

And oh, how we doubt when there's 
distance 'tween lovers, 
When there's naething to speak to 
the heart thro' the ee; 
How often the kindest and warmest 
prove rovers. 
And the love of thefaithfuUest ebbs 
like the sea. 

Till, at times — could I help it ?— I 
pined and I pondered 
If love could change notes like the 
bird on the tree — 
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may 
have wandered. 
Enough, thy leal heart has been 
constant to me. 



THE SUN UPON THE WE I HDL AW 
HILL. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; 
The western wind is hush and still. 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once 
it bore; 
Though evening, with her i-ichest dye, 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's 
shore. 

With listless look along thy ])lain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air. 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree, — 
Are they still such as once they Avere ? 

Or is the dreary change in me ? 



Alas, the warped and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye! 
The harp of strained and tuneless 
chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply! 
To aching eyes each landscape lowers, 

To feverish pulse each gale blows 
chill; 
And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland iiill. 



THE VIOLET. 

The violet in her greenwood bower, 
AVhere birchen boughs with hazels 
mingle, 

May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 

Though fair her gems of azure hue. 
Beneath the dewdrop's weight re- 
clining; 
I've seen an eye of lovelier hue. 
More sweet through watery lustre 
shining. 

The summer sun that dew shall diy, 
Ere yet the day be past its mor- 
Yov; ; 
Nor longer in my false love's eye 
Remained the tear of parting sor- 
row. 



HKLVELLYN. 

I <r.iMi;i:n the dark brow of the 

mighty Helvellyn, 
Eakes and mountains beneath me 

gleamed misty and wide; 
All was still, save by fits, when the 

eagle was yelling. 
And starting around me the echoes 

replied. 
On the right, Striden-edge round the 

Red-tarn was bending. 
And Catchedicam its left verge was 

defending, 
One huge nameless rock in the front 

was ascending. 
When I marked the sad spot where 

the wanderer had died. 



Dark green was the spot 'mid the 
brown mountain-heather. 
Where the pilgrim of nature lay 
stretched in decay, 

Like the corpse of an outcast aban- 
doned to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the 
tenantless clay. 

Xor yet quite deserted, though lonely 
extended. 

For, faithful in death, his mute fa- 
vorite attended. 

The much-loved remains of lier mas- 
ter defended. 
And chased the hill-fox and the 
raven away. 

IIow long didst thou think that his 

silence was shnuber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, 

how oft didst thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks 

didst thou number. 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend 

of thy heart ? 
And, oh! was it meet, that — no re- 
quiem read o'er him — 
Xo mother to Meep, and no friend to 

deplore him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone 

stretched before him — 
Unhonored the pilgrim from life 

should depart "? 

When a prince to the fate of the peas- 
ant has yielded, 
The tapestiy waves dark round the 
dim-lighted hall; 

With scutcheons of silver the coffin 
is shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the can- 
opied pall : 

Through the courts, at deep midnight, 
the torches are gleaming; 

In the proudly -arched chapel the 
banners are beaming. 

Far adown the long aisles sacred 
music is streaming, 
Lamenting a chief of the people 
should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of 
natiu-e, 
To lay down thy head like the meek 
mountain lamb. 



482 



SEA VER. 



When, wildcred, he drops from some i Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 
cHff huge in stature, | flying. 

And draws his last sob by the side [ With one faithful friend but to wit- 
of his dam. ness thy dying, 

And more stately thy couch by this ^ In the arms of Helvellyn and Cat- 
desert lake lying. ' chedicam. 



Emily Seaver. 



THE HOSE OF JElllCHO. 

And was it not enough that, meekly 
growing. 
In lack of aU things wherein plants 
delight, 
Cool dews, rich soil, and gentle show- 
ers refreshing. 
It yet could blossom into beauty 
bright ? 

In the hot desert, in the rocky crevice. 
By dusty waysides, on the rubbish 
heap, 
Where'er the Lord appoints, it smiles, 
believing 
That where He planteth. He will 
surely keep ! 

Nay, this is not enough, the fierce 

sirocco 

Must root it up, and sweep it from 

its home, [desert. 

And bear it miles away, across the 

Then tling it, ruthless, on the white 

sea-foam. 

Do they thus end, those lives of pa- 
tient duty, 
That gi'ow, through every grief and 
pain more fair. — 
Are they thus cast aside, at length, 
forgotten ? 
Ah no! my story is not ended 
there. 

Those roots upon the waves of ocean 
floating. 
That in their desert homes no mois- 
tm'e knew. 



Now, at the fount their life-long thirst 
are quenching, 
Whence rise the gentle showers, 
the nightly dew. 

They drink the quickening streams 
through every libi'e, 
Until with hidden life each seed 
shall swell; 
Then come the winds of God, his 
word fulfilling. 
And bear them back, where He 
shall please, to dwell. 

Thus live meek s])irits, duly schooled 
to duty. — 
The whirlwind storm may sweep 
them from their place: 
What matter if by this alfliction 
driven 
Straight to their God, the fountain 
of all grace ? 

And when, at length, the final trial 
Cometh. 
Though hurled to unknown w orlds. 
they shall not die; 
Borne not by winds of Avrath. but 
God's own angels. 
They feed upon His love and dwell 
beneath His eye. 

Till by the angel of the resurrection. 
One awful "blast through heaven 
and earth be blown ; 
Then soul and body, met no more to 
. sunder. 
That all God's ways are true and 
just shall own ! 



^■?m 



SEWALL. 



483 



Harriet Winslow Sewall. 



WHY TllU^i Losoixa? 

■\Vhy thus longing, thus forever sigh- 
ing 
For the far-off, unattained and dim, 
"While the beautiful, all round thee 

lying) 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

"Would'st thou listen to its gentle 
teaching. 
All thy restless yearnings it would 
still, 
Leaf and flower and laden bee are 
preaching, 
Thine own sphere, though humble, 
first to till. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around 

thee 

Thou no ray of light and joy canst 

throw. [thee 

If no silken cord of love hath bound 

To some little world through weal 

and woe; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can 

brighten. 

No fond voices answer to thine own. 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst 

lighten 

By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that gain the world's 
applauses, 
Not by works that win thee world 
renown, 



Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
Canst thou win and wear the im- 
mortal crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and 
lonely. 
Every day a rich reward will give; 
Thou wilt find by hearty striving 
only. 
And truly loving, thou canst truly 
live. 

Dost thou revel in the I'osy morning 
When all Nature hails the lord of 
light. 
And his smile, nor low nor lofty 
scorning. 
Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and 
height ? 

Other hands may grasp the field and 
forest. 
Proud proprietors in pomp may 
shine. 
But with fervent love if Ihou adorest. 
Thou art wealthier, — all the world 
is thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains 
thou rovest. 
Sighing that they are not thine 
alone. 
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou 
lovest. 
And tiieir beauty and thy wealth 
are gone. 



484 



SHAKESPEARE. 



William Shakespeare. 



\^From As You Lil<e It.] 

LIFE'S THEATRE. 

AiJ> tlie world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely 

players ; 
They have their exits and their en- 
trances. 
And one man in his time plays many 

parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first 

the infant, [arms. 

Mewling and puking in his nurse's 
And then, the whining school-boy, 

with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping 

like snail 
T'nwillingly to school. And then, 

the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful 

ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, 

the soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded 

like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick 

in quarrel ; 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth. And 

then, the justice. 
In fair round belly, with good capon 

lined. 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal 

cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern in- 
stances ; 
And so he plays his part. The sixth 

age shifts 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch 

on side; 
Mis youthful hose well saved, a world 

too wide 
For his shrunk shanks ; and his big 

manly voice. 
Turning again towards childish 

treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last 

scene of all 
That ends this strange eventful his- 
tory. 



Is second childishness, and mere ob- 
livion: 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
evervthing. 



[From As You Like II.] 
INGRATITUDE. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wiutl. 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude! 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! inito the 

green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most 
loving mere folly : 

Then heigh-ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou l)itter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ! 
Though thou the waters Avarp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
"Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho, <tc." 



[From Hamlet.] 
TO BE, on SOT TO BE. 

To HE, or not to be, that is the ques- 
tion — 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to 
suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous 
fortune. 

Or to take arms against a sea of 
troubles. 

And, by opposing end them ? To 
die — to sleep — [end 

No more ; and by a sleep to say we 

The heartache, and the thousand 
natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to! — 'tis a con- 
summation 

Devoutly to be wished. To die — to 
sleep — 



To sleep ! — perchance to dream! — 

ay, there's the rub; 
For in that sleep of death, what 

dreams may come 
AVhen we have shuffled off this mortal 

coil, 
Must give us pause — there's the 

respect 
That makes calamity of so long life: 
For who would bear the whips and 

scorns of time. 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud 

man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, the law's 

delay. 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
. That patient merit of th' unworthy 

takes. 
When he himself might his quietus 

make 
With a bare bodkin! Who would 

fardels bear, [life. 

To groan and sweat under a weary 
But tliat the dread of something after 

deatli — 
That undiscovered country from 

whose boui-n 
No traveller returns, — puzzles the 

will. 

And makes us rather bear those ills 

.we have, [of ? 

Than fly to others that we know not 

Thus conscience does make cowards 

of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of 

thought, 
And enterprises of great pith and 

moment. 
With this regard, their currents turn 

awry. 
And lose the name of action. 



But do not dull thy palm with enter- 

tertainment 
Of each new-hatched, unpledged com 

rade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in 
Bear it, that the opposer may beware 

of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few 

thy voice; 
Take each man's censure, but re- 
serve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy. 
But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not 

gaudy ; 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; 
And they in France, of the best rank 

and station. 
Are most select and generous, chief 

in that. 
Neither a bon-ower nor a lender be ; 
For loan oft loses both itself and 

friend ; 
And borrowing dulls the edge of hus- 
bandry. 
This above all. — To thine own self 

be true ; 
And it must follow, as the night the 

day. 
Thou canst not then be false to any 

man ! 



[From Ilamtet.] 

GOOD COUXSEL OF POLOXIUS TO 
LAERTES. 

Bk thou familiar, but by no means 

vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their 

adoption tried. 
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks 

of %teel; 



[From The Merchant of J'enice.] 

FALSE APPEARAXCES. 

The world is still deceived with 
ornament. 

In law, what plea so tLinted and cor- 
ruj>t. 

But being seasoned w'ith a gracious 
voice. 

Obscures the show of evil ? In re- 
ligion. 

What dannied error, but some sober 
brow 

Will bless it, and approve it with a 
text. 

Hiding the grossness with fair orna- 
ment ? 

There is no voice so simple, but as- 
sumes 

Some mark of virtue on its outward 
parts. 

How many cowards, whose hearts are 
all as false 



48G 



SHAKESPEARE. 



As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their 
chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning 
Mars ; 

Who, inward searched, have Uvers 
white as milk ! 

And these assume but valor's excre- 
ment, 

To render them redoubted. Look on 
beauty, 

And you shall see 'tis purchased by 
the weight, 

Wliich therein works a miracle in 
nature, 

Making them lightest that wear most 
of it. 

So are those crisped, snaky, golden 
locks, 

Which make such wanton gambols 
with the wind 

Upon supposed fairness, often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, 

The skull that bred tliem in the sep- 
ulchre. 

Thus ornament is l)ut the guiled 
shore 

To a most dangerous sea; the beau- 
teous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word. 

The seeming truth which cunning 
times put on 

To entrap the wisest. 



[From The Merchant of Venice.] 
MERCY. 

TiiK quality of mercy is not strained ; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from 
heaven 

Upon the place beneath. It is twice 
blessed ; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him 
that takes. 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it be- 
comes 

The throned monarch better than his 
crown : 

His sceptre shows the force of tempo- 
ral power. 

The attribute to awe and majesty. 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear 
of kings. 

But mercy is above the sceptred 
sway ; 



It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show 

likest God's, 
When mercy seasons justice. 



[From Troilus and Cressida.'] 

CONSTANT EFFOllT NECESSARY 
TO SUPPORT FAME. 

TiMK hath, my lord, a wallet at 

his l)ack. 
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
A great-sized monster for ingrati- 
tudes : 
Those scraps are good deeds past: 

which are devoured 
As fast as they are made, forgot as 

soon 
As done : Perseverance, dear my lord, 
Keeps honor bright: To have done, 

is to hang 
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty 

mail 
In monumental mockery. Take the 

instant way ; 
For honor travels in a strait so nar- 
row. 
Where one but goes abreast: keep 

then the path ; 
For emulation hath a thousand sons, 
That one by one pursue. If you give 

way. 
Or hedge aside from the direct forth- 
right. 
Like to an entered tide, they all rush 

by. 
And leave you hindmost ; — 
Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first 

rank, 
Lie there for pavement to the abject 

rear, 
O'erruu and trampled on. Then what 

they do in present. 
Though less than yours in past, must 

o'ertop yours: 
For time is like a fashionable host 
Tliat slightly shakes his parting guest 

by the hand; 
And with his arms outstretched, as 

he would fly. 
Grasps in the comer. Welcome ever 

smiles ' 



SHAKESPEARE. 



487 



And farewell goes out sighing. O, 

let not virtue seek 
Remuneration for the thing it was; 
For beauty, wit, 
High birth, vigor of bone, desert in 

service, 
Love, friendship, charity, are sub- 
jects all 
To envious and calumniating time. 
One touch of nature makes the whole 

world kin, — 
That all with one consent, praise new- 

boi'n gauds, 
Though they are made and moulded 

of things past; 
And give to dust, that is a little gilt, 
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. 
The present eye praises the present 

object: 
Then marvel not, thou great and 

complete man, 
That all the Greeks begin to worship 

Ajax; 
.Since things in motion sooner catcli 

the eye 
Than what not stirs. 



[From Henrij I'll/.] 
LIFE'S VICISSiri'DES. 

Fai!EWEli., a long farewell to all my 

greatness ! 
'I'his is the state of man: To-day he 

puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow 

blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick 

upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing 

frost. 
And when he thinks, good easy man, 

full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his 

root 
And then he falls as I do. I have 

ventured. 
Like little wanton boys, that swim on 

bladders, 
These many summers in a sea of 

glory • 
But far l)eyond my depth: my high- 
blown pride 



At length broke uutler lue; and now 

has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the 

mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever 

hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I 

hate ye ! 



[From Measure for Measurc.1 
FEAR OF DEATH. 

Ay, but to die, and go we know not 

where ; 
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; 
Tliis sensible warm motion to become 
A kneaded clod; and the delighted 

spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed 

ice; 
To be imprisoned in the viewless 

winds. 
And blown with restless violence 

rounil about 
The pendent world: or to be worse 

than worst 
Of those, that lawless and incertain 

thoughts 
Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible! 
The weariest and most loathed 

worldly life. 
That age, ache, penury, and impris- 
onment 
Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
To what we fear of death! 



[From The Tempest.] 
EXD OF ALL EARTHLY GLORY. 

Ouii revels now are ended : these our 

actors, 
As I foretold you. were all spirits, 

and 
Are melted into air, into thin air; 
And, like the baseless fabric of this 

vision. 
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous 

palaces. 
The solemn temples, the great globe 

itself, 






Yea, all which \t inherit, shall dis- 
solve: 

And, like this insubstantial pageant 
faded, 

Leave not a rack behind! We are 
such stuff 

As dreams are made of, and our little 
life 

Is rounded with a sleep. 



[From Cijmbelbie.'] 
FEAR lYO MOUK. 

Fkar no more the heat o' the sun. 

Nor the furious winter's rages; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done. 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy 
wages : 
Oolden lads and girls all must. 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great. 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 

Care no more to clothe and eat. 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must. 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; 

Fear not slander, censure rash, 
Thou hast finished joy and moan. 

All lovers young, all lovers must. 

Consign to thee, and come to dust, 



[From J'euun (tnd .U/oiiis.] 
THE HOnSE OF ADOXfS. 

Look, when a painter woidd sui'pass 
the life. 

In limning out a w(>ll-proportioned 
steed. 

His art with Nature's workmanship 
at strife, 

As if the dead the living should ex- 
ceed : 

So did this horse excel a common 
one 

In shape, in courage, color, pace and 
bone. 



Hound-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks 

shag and long. 
Broad breast, full eyes, small head, 

and nostrils wide. 
High crest, short ears, straight legs, 

and passing sti'ong. 
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, 

tender hide: 
Look, what a horse should have, he 

did not lack, 
.Save a proud rider on so proud a 

back. 

Sometimes he scuds far off, and then 
he stares ; 

Anon he starts at stirring of a feather, 

To bid the wind a base he now pre- 
pares 

And whe'r he run, or fly, they know 
not whether. 

P'or through his mane and tail the 
high wind sings, 

Fanning the hairs, which wave like 
feathered wings. 



LOVE, THE SOLACE OF mESENT 
CALAMITY. 

"Wjiex in disgrace w ith fortune and 

men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my 

bootless cries, [fate. 

And look upon myself, and curse my 
Wishing me like to one more rich in 

hope. 
Featured like him. like him with 

friends i^Qssessed, 
Desiring this man's art, and that 

man's scope, 
AVith Avhat I most enjoy contented 

least: 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost 

despising. 
Haply I think on thee, — and then 

my state [ing 

(Like to the lark at break of day aris- 
Froni sullen earth) sings hynms at 

heaven's gat(>: 
For thy sweet love remembered, 

such wealth brings, 
That then I scorn to change my 

state with kings. 



HIIAKEiSFEARE. 



489 



LOVE, THE RETniEVER OF PAST 
LOSSES. 

AViiEN to the sessions of sweet silent 

tliought 
I summon up remembrance of tilings 

past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I 

sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear 

time's waste: 
Then can I drown an eye, unused 

to flow, 
For precious friends hid In death's 

dateless night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since 

cancelled woe, 
And moan the expense of many a 

vanished sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances fore- 
gone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er. 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned 

moan. 
Which 1 new pay as if not paid be- 
fore. 
But if the while I tliiuk on thee, 

dear friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows 

end. 



They were but sweet, but figures of 

delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all 
those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you 

away. 
As with your shadow I with these 
did play. 



A'O spnrxG iriTHouT the he- 

LOrED. 

Fuoji you have I been absent in the 

spring. 
When proud pied April, dressed in 

all his trim. 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every 

thing. 
That heavy Saturn laughed and 

leaped with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the 

sweet smell 
Of different tlowers in odor and in 

hue, 
Could make me any summer's story 

tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them 

where they grew. 
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the 

rose : 



L O VE UNAL TEE ABLE. 

Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not 

love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to re- 
move : 
O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
That looks on tempests, and is never 

shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Wliose worth's unknown, although 

his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy 

lips and clieeks 
Within ids bending sickle's compass 

come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours 

and weeks 
But bears it out e'en to the edge of 

doom. 
If this be error, and uiion nn; 

proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever 

loved. 



TO MY SOUL. 

Poou soul, the centre of my sinful 
earth. 

Fooled by those rebel powei-s that 
thee array. 

Why dost thou pine within, and suf- 
fer deartli. 

Painting thy outward walls so costly 
gay '? 

Why so large cost, having so short a 
lease. 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion 
spend ? 



490 



SHELLEY. 



Shall worms, inheritors of this ex- 
cess, 

Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy 
body's end ? 

Then, soul, live thou upon thy ser- 
vant's loss, 

And let that pine to aggravate thy 
store : 



Buj terms divine in selling hours of 

dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no 
more : 
So shalt thou feed on death, that 

feeds on men. 
And, death once dead, there's no 
more dying then. 



Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



OXE WORD TS TOO OFTEN PRO- 
FANED. 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it. 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love. 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not: 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



V 



The fountains.mingle with the river. 

And the rivers with the ocean, 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a- law divine 
In one another's being mingle, — 

Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the nioonbeams kiss the sea; 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Haii, to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart [art. 

In profuse strains of unpremeditated 

Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of tire; 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soar- 
ing ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the simken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and I'un; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is 
just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is 
there 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely clovid 
The moon rains out her beams, and 
heaven is overflowed. 



What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain 
of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace-tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which 
overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which 
screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet 
these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers. 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy 
music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bii'd. 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture 
so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumv)hal chant. 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
AVhat fields, or waves, or moun- 
tains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what 
ignorance of pain ? 



With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's 
sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how coidd thy notes flow in such 
a crystal stream ? 



We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell 
of saddest thought. 



Yet if we coifld scorn 
Hate, and pride, and fear; 

If we were tilings born 
Not to shed a tear, 

know not how thy joy we ever 
should come near. 



Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner 
of tlie ground ! 



Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen tlien, as I am 
listening now. 



492 



tiHELLEY. 



MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE. 

Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory, — 
Odors, wlien sweet .violets sicken, 
Live witliin the sense they quiclien. 



Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed: 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art 

gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



TIME. 



Unfatiiomablk Sea! whose waves 
are years. 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of 
deep woe 
Are brackish with the salt of human 
tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy 
ebb and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
And sick of prey, yet howling on for 

more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospi- 
table shore ; 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in 
storm. 
Who shall put forth on thee, 
Unfathomable Sea ? 



THE WOllLirs WANDERERS. 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of 

light 
Speed tiiee in thy fiery flight. 
In what cavern of the night 
Will thy pinions close now? 

Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now '? 

Weary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
llast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow '.* 



DEATH. 

Dkath is here, and death is there, 
Death is busy everywhere, 
All around, within, beneath, 
Above, is death, — and we are death. 

First our pleasures die, — and then 
Our hopes, and then our fears, — and 

when 
These are dead, the debt is due, 
Dust claims dust, — and we die too. 

All things that we love and cherish. 
Like ourselves, nuist fade and i^erish; 
Such is our rude mortal lot, — 
Love itself woidd, did they not. 



THE CLOUD. 

I ni:iN(i fresh showers for the thii'st- 
ing flowers. 
From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shades for the leaves 
when laid 
In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews 
that waken 
The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their moth- 
er's breast. 
As she dances about the sun. 
1 wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again 1 dissolve it in rain, 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains be- 
low, 
And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow 
white. 
While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey 
bowers. 
Lightning, my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under, is fettered the 
thunder, 
It struggles and howls by fits ; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle 
motion. 
This pilot is guiding me. 




Lured by the love of the genii that 
move 
In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
hills. 
Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain 
or stream. 
The spirit he loves, remains; 
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's 
blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



The sanguine smarise, with his me- 
teor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 
When the morning-star shines 
dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
Which an earthquake rocks and 
swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 
In the light of its golden wings. 
And Avhen sunset may l)reathe, from 
the lit sea beneath. 
Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

Fiom the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine 
airy nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire 
laden, 
AVhom mortals call the moon, 
(Hides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
floor. 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unsceii 
feet, 
Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my 
tent's thin roof. 
The stars peep behind her and 
peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and 
flee. 
Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind- 
built tent. 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and 
seas, 



Like strips of the sky fallen through 
me on high. 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these, 

I bind the sun's throne with a burn- 
ing zone, I pearl; 
And the moon's with a girdle of 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
reel and swim. 
When the whirlwinds my banner 
unfurl. 
From cape to cape, v.ith a bridge- 
like shape. 
Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, 1 hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I 
march. 
With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are 
chained to my chaii-, 
Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors 
wove. 
While the moist earth was laugh- 
ing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky: 
I pass through the pores of the ocean 
and shores; 
I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never 
a stain. 
The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with 
their convex gleams. 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a 
ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and mibuild it again. 



FROM •• THE SEXSiriVE-PLAXr." 

A SENSiTiVE-plant in a garden grew. 

And the young winds fed it with sil- 
ver dew, 

And it opened its fan-like leaves to 
the light, 

And closed them beneath the kisses 
of night. 




494 



SIIKLLEY. 



And the spring arose on the garden 
fair, 

And tlie Spirit of Love fell every- 
where; 

And each flower and herb on Earth's 
dark breast 

Kose from the dreams of its wintry 
rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted 
with bliss 

In the garden, the field, or the wil- 
derness, 

Like a doe in the noontide with love's 
sweet want, 

As the companionless sensitive-plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm 

rain wet. 
And tlieir breath was mixed with 

fresh odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the 

instrument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the 
tulip tall. 

And narcissi, the fairest among them 
alh 

Who gaze on their eyes in the 
stream's recess, 

Till they die of their own dear love- 
liness. 

And the Xaiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and i^as- 

sion so pale. 
That the light of its tremulous bells 

is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender 

green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, 
and blue. 

Which flung from its bells a sweet 
peal anew 

Of music so delicate, soft, and in- 
tense, 

It was felt like an odor within the 
sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the 

bath addrest. 
Which luiveiled the depth of her 

glowing breast. 



Till, fold after fold, to the fainting 

air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay 

bare ; 

And the Avand-like lily, which lifted 

up. 
As a Mienad, its moonlight-colored 

cup, 
Till the flery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through the clear dew on the 

tender sky; 

And the jessamine faint, and the 

sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that 

blows; 
And all rare blossoms from every 

clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream Avhose inconstant 
bosom 

Was prankt, under boughs of embow- 
ering blossom. 

With golden and green light, slanting 
through 

Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad watei'-lilies lay tremulously. 
And starry river-buds glimmered by. 
And around them the soft stream did 

glide and dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and 

radiance. 



And from this undefiled Paradise 

The flowers, — as an infant's awaken- 
ing eyes 

Smile on its mother, whose singing 
sweet 

Can first lull, and at last must awaken 
it — 

When heaven's blithe winds had un- 
folded them. 

As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden 
gem. 

Shone smiling to heaven, and every 
one 

Shared joy in the light of the gentle 
smi; 



For each one was interpenetrated 
With the Hsiht and the odor its neigli- 

bor shed, 
Like young lovers whom youth and 

love make dear. 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual 

atmosphere. 

But the sensitive-plant, which coukl 
give small fruit 

Of the love which it felt from the 
leaf to the root, 

Eeceived more than all, it loved more 
than ever, 

Where none wanted but it, could be- 
long to the giver, — 

For the sensitive-plant has no briglit 

flower ; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower : 
It loves, even like love, its deep heart 

is full, [fui: 

It desires what it has not, the beauti- 



Fiioyr 



'to a lady with a 
guitar:- 



TwK artist who this idol wrought. 
To echo all harmonious thought. 
Felled a tree, wliile on the steep 
The woods were in tlieir winter sleep. 
Rocked in that repose divine 
On tlie wind-swept Apennine; 
And dreaming, some of autumn past. 
And some of spring approaching fast. 
And souie of April buds and showers. 
And souie of songs in July bowers. 
And all of love; and so this tree, — 
O that such our death may l)e ! — 
Died in sleep, and felt no i)ain. 
To live in happier form again: 
From wliicli, beneatli heaven's faii- 

est star. 
The artist wrought this loved guitar. 
And taught it justly to reply, 
To all who question skilfully. 
In language gentle as tliine own; 
Whispering in enamored tone 
hweet oracles of woods and dells. 
And summer winds in sylvan cells; 
For it had learnt all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains. 
And tlie many-voiced fountains; 



'J'lie clearest echoes of the hills. 
The softest notes of falling rills, 
The melodies of birds and bees, 
The murmuring of sununer seas. 
And pattering rain, and breathing 

dew. 
And airs of evening; and it knew 
Tliat seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
Wliich, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats through boundless day. 
Our world enkindles on its way, — 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions; and no more 
Is heai'd than has been felt before, 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill. 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved friend alone. 



aooD-NiGirr. 

Good-night ? ah! no; the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite; 

Let us remain together still, 
Then it will be fjood night. 

How can I call the lone night good. 
Though thy sweet wishes wing its 
flight •> 

Be it not said, thought, understood. 
That it will be goud night. 

To hearts which near each other 
move [liglit, 

From evening close to morning 
The night is good ; because, my love, 

They never say good-night. 



MUTABILITY. 

We are as clouds that veil the mid- 
night moon ; 
How restlessly they speed, and 
gleam, and quiver, 
Streaking the darkness radiantly! — 
yet soon 
Night closes round, and they are 
lost forever : 



Or like forgotten lyres, whose disso- We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or 
nant strings ' Aveep; 

Give various response to each vary- Embrace fond woe, or cast our 
ing blast, | cares away. 

To whose frail frame no second mo- 
tion brings I It is the same ! — For, be it joy or 
One mood or modulation like the sorrow. 



last. 

We rest — a dream has power to poi- 
son sleep : 
We rise — one wandering thought 
pollutes the day; 



The path of its dejiarture still is 
free ; 
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like 
his morrow; 
Naught may endure but muta- 
bility. 



William Shenstone. 



STANZAS FliOM ''THE SCIIOOL- 

MisriiEssr 

In every village marked with little 
spire, 

Embowered in trees, and hardly 
known to fame, 

There dwells, in lowly shed, and 
mean attire, 

A matron old, whom we school- 
mistress name; 

Who boasts unruly brats with birch 
to tame ; 

They grieven sore, in piteous dur- 
ance pent, 

Awed by the power of this relent- 
less dame ; 

And oft-times, on vagaries idly 
bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, 
are sorely shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen 

tree. 
Which learning near her little 

dome did stow; 
Whilom a twig of small regard to 

see. 
Though now so wide its waving 

branches flow, [woe; 

And work the simple vassals mickle 
For not a wind might curl the 

leaves that blew. 
But their limbs sliuddered, and 

their pulse beat low; 



And as they looked they found 
their horror grow. 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled 
at the view. 

Near to this dome is found a patch 

so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols 

do display ; 
And at the door imprisoning board 

is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller 

size should stray; 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermixed, Mhich 

thence resound, [tray; 

Do learning's little tenement be- 
Where sits the dame, disguised in 

look profound 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns 

her wheel around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven 
snow. 

Emblem right meet of decency 
does yield: 

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I 
trow, [field: 

As is the harebell that adorns the 

And in her hand, for sceptre, she 
does wield 

Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious 
fear entwined. 

With dark distrust, and sad re- 
pentance filled ; 






;^ HEN STONE. 



497 



And steadfast hate, and sharp af- 
fliction joined, 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastise- 
ment unkind. 



A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 

thrown ; 
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping 

air; 
'Twas simple russet, hut it was her 

own; 
'Twas her own country bred the 

flock so fair, 
'Twas her own labor did tlie fleece 

prepare : 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, 

ranged around. 
Through pious awe, did term it 

passing rare; 
For they in gaping wonderment 

abound. 
And think no doubt, she been the 

greatest wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her 

truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her 

ear; 
Goody , good-woman, gossip, n' aunt, 

forsooth. 
Or dame, the sole additions she did 

hear; 
Yet these she challenged, these she 

held right dear: 
Nor would esteem him act as 

mought behove. 
Who should not honored eld with 

tliese revere: 
For never title^ yet so mean could 

prove. 
But there was eke a mind which did 

that title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to 
feed ; 

The plodding pattern of the busy 
dame : 

Which, ever and anon, impelled by 
need. 

Into lier school, begirt with chick- 
ens, came; 

Such favor did her past deport- 
ment claim; 



And, if neglect had lavished on the 
ground 

Fragments of bread, she would 
collect the same. 

For well she knew, and quaintly 
could expound. 
What sin it were to waste the small- 
est crumb she found. 



Here oft tlie dame, on Sabbath's de- 
cent eve. 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold 
forth did mete; 

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth 
did cleave. 

But in her garden found a summer 
seat; 

Sweet melody to hear her then 
repeat 

How Israel's sons, beneath a for- 
eign king, 

Wliile taunting foemen did a song 
entreat, 

All, for the nonce, untuning every 
string, 
Uphung their useless lyres — small 
heart had they to sing. 

For she was ]ust, and friend to vir- 
tuous lore, 

And passed much time in truly vir- 
tuous deed ; 

And, in those elfins' ears, would 
oft deplore 

The times, when truth by popish 
rage did bleed ; 

And tortuous death was true devo- 
tion's meed; 

And simple Faith in iron chains did 
mourn. 

That nould on wooden image 
place lier creed ; 

And lawnly saints in smouldering 
flames did burn : 
Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk 
days should ere return. 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish 
stem. 

By the sharp tooth of cankering 
eld defaced, 

In which, when he receives his di- 
adem. 



m 






498 



SHIRLEY. 



Our sovereign prince and liefest 

liege is jjlaced. 
The matron sate; and some with 

rank she graced. 
(The sonrce of children's and of 

courtiers' pride!) 
Eedressed affronts, for vile affronts 

there passed ; 
And warned them not the fretful 

to deride, 
But love each other dear, whatever 

them betide. 

Eight well she knew each temper to 

desciy ; 
To thwart the proud and the sub- 
miss to raise ; 
Some Avith vile copper-prize exalt 

on high, 
And some entice with pittance 

small of praise; 
And other some with baleful sprig 

she frays ; 
E'en absent, she the reins of power 

doth hold. 
While with quaint arts, the giddy 

crowd she sways, 
Forewarned, if little bird their 

pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the 

scene imfold. 



WRITTEN AT AN JNN AT HENLEY. 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From tlattery, cards, and dice, and 
din; 
Xor art thou found in mansions 
higher 
Than the low cot or luuiil)!*' Inn. 

'Tis here with boundless power I 
reign, 
And every healtli which I Ijegin 
Converts dull port to bright cham- 
pagne ! 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn, 

1 fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
1 fly from Falseliood' s specious grin ; 

Freedom I love, and form I hate, 
And choose my lodgings at an inn. 

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, 
Which lackeys else might hope to 
win ; 

It buys what courts have not in store, 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull 
round, 

Where'er his stages may have been. 
May sigh to think he still has fouml 

His warmest welcome at an inn. 



James Shirley. 



[From The Contention of AJax and Uli/sscs.] 
DEATH THE LEVELLER. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows. not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against Fate — 
Death lays his icy" hand on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tum])le down. 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and 
spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the 

field, [kill; 

And plant fresh laurels where they 

But their strong nerves at last must 
j'ield — 



They tame but one another still; 
Earlj- or late 
They stoop to Fate. 
And must give up their miu-nnu'ing 

breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to 
death. 

The garlands Avlther on your brow — 
Then boast no more your mighty 
deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar, now. 
See where the victor-victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb — 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the 
dust. 



Sir Philip Sidney. 



SOXNET TO SLEEP. 

Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot 

of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, tlie balm of 

woe. 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's 

release. 
The indifferent judge between the 

high and low ! 
With shield of proof, shield me from 

out tlie prease 
Of those tierce darts, Despair at me 

doth throw : 



make me in those civil wars to 

cease ! 

1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take tliou of me smooth pillows, 

sweetest bed; 

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind 
to light ; 

A rosy garland , and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine 
by right. 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt 
in me, 

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's im- 
age see. 



Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 



FAREirELL OF THE SOUL TO THE 
BODY. 

Companion dear! the hour draws 
nigh; 

The sentence speeds — to die, to die. 

So long in mystic union held, 

So close with strong embrace com- 
pelled. 

How canst thou bear the dread de- 
cree, 

That strikes thy clasping nerves from 
me? 

To Him who on this mortal shore. 

The same encircling vestment wore. 

To Him 1 look, to Him I bend. 

To Him thy shuddering frame com- 
mend. 

If I have ever caused thee pain, 

The throbbing breast, the burning 
brain. 

With cares and vigils turned thee 
pale. 

And scorned thee when thy strength 
did fail — 

Forgive ! — Forgive! — thy task doth 
cease. 

Friend ! Lover ! — let us part in peace. 

If thou didst sometimes check my 
force. 

Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 



Or lure from Heaven my wavering 

trust, 
Or bow my drooping wing to dust — 
I blame thee not, the strife is done, 
I knew thou wert the weaker one. 
The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
Constrained to hold the breath of 

God. 
— Well hast thou in my service 

wrought; 
Thy brow liath mirrored forth my 

thought. 
To wear my smile thy lip hath glowed. 
Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed ; 
Thine ear hath borne me rich sup- 
plies 
Of sweetly varied melodies ; 
Thy hands my prompted deeds have 

done, 
Thy feet upon mine errands run ; 
Yes, thou hast marked my bidding 

well. 
Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell ! 

Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 

Meek mother Earth with flowers 

shall spread. 
'Wliere I no more thy sleep may break 
With fevered dream, nor rudely wake 
Thy wearied eye. 



500 



SIOOURNEY, 



Oh, quit thy hold, 
For thou art faint, and chill, and cold. 
And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
Have hound nie pitying in thy chain. 
Though angels urge me hence to soar, 
Where I shall share thine ills no more. 
Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy 

pain 
Remember — we shall meet again. 
Quell with this hope the victor's 

sting. 
And keep it as a signet-ring. 
When the dire worm shall pierce thy 

breast, 
And nought but ashes mark thy rest, 
When stars shall fall, and skies grow 

dark, 
And i^roud suns quench their glow- 
worm spark. 
Keep thou that hope, to light thy 

gloom. 
Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
— Then shalt thou glorious rise, and 

fair. 
Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear. 
And I, with hovering wing elate, 
The bursting of thy bonds shall wait. 
And breathe the welcome of the sky — 
'• No more to part, no more to die, 
Co-heir of Immortality." 



BENE VOLENCE. 

Whose is the gold that glitters in the 

mine ? 
And whose the silver ? Are they not 

the Lord's ? 
And lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills. 
And the broad earth with all her 

gushing springs 
Are they not His who made them ? 

Ye who hold 

Slight tenantry therein, and call your 
lands 

By your own names, and lock your 
gathered gold 

From him who in his bleeding Sa- 
viour's nanie 

Doth ask a part, whose shall those 
riches be 

When, like the grass-blade from the 
autumn frost, 

Ye fall away ? 



Point out to me the forms 
That in your treasure-chambers shall 

enact 
Glad mastership, and revel where 

you toiled 
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces 

are they all. 
O man! whose wrinkling labor is 

for heirs 
Thou knowest not who, thou in thy 

mouldering bed, 
Unkenned, vmchronicled of them, 

shall sleep; 
Nor will they thank thee, that thou 

didst bereave 
Thy soul of good for them. 

Now, Vaow mayest give 
The famished food, the prisoner 

liberty. 
Light to the darkened mind, to the 

lost soul 
A place in heaven. Take thou the 

privilege 
With solemn gratitude. Speck as 

thou art 
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult 
To be co-worker with the King of 

kinafs. 



THE CORAL INSECT. 

Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, 

Who build on the tossing and treach- 
erous main; 

Toil on! for the wisdom of man ye 
mock. 

With your sand-based structures, and 
domes of rock; 

Your colunms the fathomless foun- 
tains lave, 

And your arches spring up through 
the crested wave ; 

Ye're a pvuiy race, thus boldly to rear 

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with yoiu- secret 
zone. 

The ocean is sealed, and the surge a 
stone: 

Fresh wreaths from the coral pave- 
ment spring. 

Like the terraced pride of Assyria's 
kins : 



SIMMS. 



501 



The turf looks green where the break- 
ers rolled, 

O'er the Avhirlpool ripens the rind of 
gold, [men. 

The sea-snatched isle is the home of 

And mountains exult where the wave 
hath been. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the bil- 
lows dark 

The wrecking reef for the gallant bark? 

There are snares enough on the 
tented field; 

'Mid the blossomed sweets that the 
valleys yield ; 

There are serpents to coil ere the 
flowers are up: 

There's a poison drop in man's purest 
cup ; 

There are foes that watch for his cra- 
dle breath, 

And why need ye sow the floods with 
death ? 

With mouldering bones the deeps are 

white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics 

bright ; 



The mermaid hath twisted her fingers 
cold 

AVith the mesh of the sea-boy's curls 
of gold ; 

And the gods of ocean have frowned 
to see 

The mariner's bed 'mid their halls of 
glee; 

Hath earth no graves ? that ye thus 
must spread 

The boundless sea with the throng- 
ing dead ? 

Ye build ! ye build ! bi;t ye enter not 
in; 

Like the tribes whom the desert de- 
voured in their sin ; 

From the land of promise, ye fade 
and die. 

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your 
wearied eye. 

As the cloud-crowned pyramids' 
founders sleep 

Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the deso- 
late main, 

While the wonder and pride of your 
works remain. 



William Gilmore Simms. 



PROGRESS IX DENIAL. 

*' Yet, onward still! " the spirit cries 
within, 
'Tis I that must repay thee. Mor- 
tal fame. 
If won, is but at best the hollow din. 
The vulgar freedom with a mighty 

name ; 
Seek not this music, — ask not this 
acclaim, 
But in the strife find succor; — for 
the toil 
Pursued for such false barter ends 
in shame. 
As certainly as that which seeks but 

spoil ! 
Best recompense he finds, who, to 
his task 
Brings a proud, patient spirit that 
will wait, 



Nor for the guerdon stoop, nor vainly 

ask 
Of fate or fortune, — but with right 

good-will, [still. 

Go, working on, and uncomplaining 

Assured of fit reward, or soon or 

late! 



SOLACE OF THE WOODS. 

Woods, waters, have a charm to 

soothe the ear. 
When common soimds have vexed 

it. When the day 
Grows sultry, and the crowd is in 

thy way. 
And working in thy soul much coil 

and care, — 
Betake thee to the forests. In the 

shade 



^^^^i^«^- 



502 



SIMMS. 



Of pines, and by the side of purl- 
ing sti'eams 
That prattle all their secrets in 
their dreams, 
Unconscious of a listener, — unafraid; 
Thy soul shall feel their freshening, 
and the truth 
Of nature then, reviving in thy 
heart, 
Shall bring thee the best feelings of 
thy youth. 
When in all natural joys thy joy 
had part. 
Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of 

trade 
Had turned thee to the thing thou 
wast not made. 



RECOMPENSE. 

Not profitless the game, even when 
we lose. 
Nor wanting in reward the thank- 
less toil; 
The wild adventure that the man 
pursues. 
Requites him, though he gather not 
the spoil : 
Strength follows labor, and its exer- 
cise 
Brings independence, fearlessness 
of ill,— 
Courage and pride, — all attributes we 
prize ; — 
Though their fruits fail, not the 
less precious still. 
Though fame withholds the trophy of 
desire, 
And men deny, and the imxiatient 
throng 
Grow heedless, and the strains pro- 
tracted, tire; — 
Not wholly vain the minstrel and 
the song. 
If, striving to arouse one heavenly 

tone 
In others' hearts, it wakens up his 
own. 

And this, methinks, were no imseem- 
ly boast. 
In him who thus records the exije- 
rience 



Of one, the humblest of that erring 
host. 
Whose labors have been thought to 
need defence. 
What though he reap no honors, — 

M'hat though death 
Rise terrible between him and the 

wreath, 
That had been his reward, ere, in the 
dust. 
He too is dust ; yet hath he in his 
heart. 
The happiest consciousness of what 
is just. 
Sweet, true, and beautiful, — which 
will not part [faith, 

From his possession. In this happy 
He knows that life is lovely, — that 

all things 
Are sacred ; — that the air is full of 
wings 
Bent heavenward, — and that bliss is 
born of scath ! 



HEART ESSENTIAL TO GENIUS. 

We are not always equal to our fate. 
Nor true to our conditions. Doultt 

and fear 
Beset the bravest in their high 
career. 
At moments when the soul, no more 
elate 
With expectation, sinks beneath 

the time. 
The masters have their weakness. 

" I would cliuib," 
Said Raleigh, gazing on the high- 
est hill— 
" But that I tremble with the fear to 
fall!" 
Apt was the answer of the high- 
souled Queen, — 
" If thy heart fail thee, never climb 

ataU!" 
The heart! if that be sound, confirms 
the rest, 
Crowns genius with his lion will 
and mien. 
And, from the conscious virtue in the 
breast. 
To trembling nature gives both 
strength and will ! 




SIMMS. 



503 



FRIENDSHIP. 



Though wronged, not harsh my an- 
swer ! Love is fond, 
Even pained, — and rather to his 

injury bends, 
Than cliooses to make shipwreck 
of his friends 
By stormy summons. He hath 
naught beyond 
For consolation, if tliat tliese be 

lost; 

And rather will he hear of fortune 
crossed, 
Plans baffled, hopes denied, — than 
take a tone 
Resentful, — with a quick and keen 

reply 
To hasty passion and impatient 
eye. 
Such as by noblest natures may be 
shown. 
When the mood vexes ! Friendship 

is a seed 
Needs tendance. You nuist keep it 
free from weed, 
Nor, if the tree has sometimes bitter 

fruit, 
Must you for this lay axe inito the 
root. 



UNHAPPY CHILDHOOD. 

That season which all other men re- 
gret, 
And strive, with boyish longing, to 
I'ecall, 

Which love permits not memory to 
forget. 
And fancy still restores in dreams 
of all 

That boyhood worshipped, or be- 
lieved, or knew, — 

Brings no sweet images to me, — was 
true, 

Only in cold and cloud, in lonely 
days 
And gloomy fancies, — in defrauded 

claims. 
Defeated hopes, denied, denying 
aims ; — 

Cheered by no promise, — lighted by 
no rays. 



Warmed by no smile, — no mother's 
smile, — that smile. 

Of all, best suited sorrow to beguile, 

And strengthen hope, and, by un- 
marked degrees. 

Encourage to their birth high pur- 
poses. 



MAXHOOD. 

Manhood at last ! — and, with its 
consciousness, 
Are strength and freedom ; freedom 
to pursue 
The purposes of hope, — the godlike 
bliss. 
Born in the struggle for the great 
and true! 
And every energy that should be mine. 
This day, I dedicate to its object, — 
Life! 
So help me. Heaven, that never I re- 
sign 
The duty which devotes me to the 
strife ; 
The enduring conflict which demands 
my strength, 
Whether of soul or body, to the 
last; 
The tribute of my years, through all 
their length; 
The future's compensation to the 
past! 
Boys' pleasures are for boyhood, — its 

best cares 
Befit us not in our performing years. 



NIGHT-STORM. 

This tempest sweeps the Atlantic ! — 
Nevasink 
Is howling to the capes I Grim Hat- 
teras cries 
Like thousand damned ghosts, that 
on the brink 
Lift their dark hands and threat 
the thi-eatening skies; 
Surging through foam and tempest, 
old Roman 
Hangs o'er the gulf, and, with his 

cavernous throat. 
Pours out the torrent of his wolfish 
note, 



504 



SMITH. 



And bids the billows bear it where 

they can ! 
Beep calleth unto deep, and, from 

the cloud, 
Launches the bolt, that,' bursting 

o'er the sea, 
Kends for a moment the thick pitchy 

shroud. 
And shows the ship the shore be- 
neath her lee : 
Start not, dear wife, no dangers here 

betide, — 
And see, the boy still sleeping at 

your side! 



TRIUMPH. 

The grave but ends the struggle! 
Follows then 
The trimnph, which, superior to 
the doom, 



Grows loveliest, and looks best, to 
mortal men. 
Purple in beauty, towering o'er the 
tomb I 
Oh ! with the stoppage of the impid- 
sive tide 
That vexed the impatient heart 

with needful strife. 
The soul that is hope's living, 
leaps to life. 
And shakes her fragrant plumage far 

and wide! 
Eyes follow then in worship which 
but late 
Frowned in defiance, — and the 
timorous herd, [word, 

That sleekly waited for another's 
Grow bold, at last, to bring, — obey- 
ing fate, — 
The tribute of their praise, but late 
denied, — 
Tribute of homage which is some- 
times, — hate! 



Alexander Smith. 

[From Norton.] 
B ABB ABA. 

On the Sabbath-day, 

Through the church-yard old and gray. 
Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; 
And amid tlie words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 
'Mid the gorgeous storms of music — in the mellow organ-calms, 
'Mid the upward-streaming prayei's, and the rich and solemn psalms, 

I stood careless, Barbara. 

My heart was otherwhere 

While the organ shook the air. 
And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; 
But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine 
Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine — 
Gleamed and vanished in a moment — Oh, that face was surely thine 

Out of heaven, Barbara ! 

O pallid, pallid face ! 

O earnest eyes of grace ! 
When last I saw thee, dearest,"it was in another place. 
You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; 
The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist — 
A piu"ple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, 

That wild morning, Barbara! 



I searched, in my despair. 

Sunny noon and midniglit air; 
I coiild not drive away the thouglit that you were lingering there. 
Oh, many and many a A\inter niglit I sat when you were gone, 
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. 
Within the dripping church-yard, the rain plashing on your stone. 

You were sleeping, Barbara ! 

'Mong angels, do you think 

Of the precious golden link 
I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink ? 
Or when that niglit of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, 
Was emptied of its nuisic. and we watched, through latticed bars, 
The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars. 

Till the day broke, 13arbara ? 

In the years I've changed; 

Wild and far my heart" hath ranged, 
And many sins and errors now have been on "me avenged; 
But to you I liave been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: 
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact — 
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract — 

Still I love you, Barbara ! 

Yet, love, I am unblest; 

With many doubts opprest, 
I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. 
Could I but win you for an hour from olf that starry shore, 
The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more 
Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore. 

You could teach me, Barbara ! 

In vain, in vain, in vain! 

You will never come again! 
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; 
The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, 
Round selfish shores forever moans the hurt and Avounded sea, 
There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, 

Barbara ! 



GLASGOW. 



Sing, poet, 'tis a merry world; 
That cottage smoke is rolled and 
curled 

In sport, that every moss 
Is happy, every inch of soil ; — 
Before vie rims a road of toil 

With my grave cut across. 
Sing, trailing showers and breezy 

downs — 
I know the tragic hearts of towns. 



City! I am true son of thine; 
Ne'er dwelt I Avhere great mornings 
shine 

Around the bleating pens; 
Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed, 
And ne'er upon my childhood weighed 

The silence of the glens. 
Instead of shores where ocean 

beats 
I hear the ebb and flow of streets. 




506 



SMITH. 



Black Labor draws his weary waves 
Into their secret moaning caves; 

But, with tlie morning light, 
That sea again will overflow 
With a long, weary sound of woe, 

Again to faint in night. 
Wave am I in that sea of woes, 
Which, night and morning, ebbs and 
flows. 

I dwelt within a gloomy court. 
Wherein did never sunbeam sport ; 

Yet there my heart was stirred — 
My very blood did dance and thrill, 
A\' hen on my narrow window-sill 

►Spring lighted like a bird. 
Poor flowers! I watched them pine 

for weeks, 
With leaves as pale as human cheeks. 

Afar, one summer, I was borne ; 
Through golden vapors of the morn 

I heard the hills of sheep : 
I trod with a wild ecstasy 
The bright fringe of the living sea : 

And on a ruined keep 
I sat, and watched an endless plain 
Blacken beneath the gloom of rain. 

Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste. 
O'er which a laughing shower has 
raced ! 

Oh, fair the April shoots ! 
Oh, fair the woods on summer days, 
While a blue hyacinthine haze 

Is dreaming round the roots ! 
In thee, O city ! I discern 
Another beauty, sad and stern. 

Dra wthy fierce streams of blinding ore. 
Smite on a thousand anvils, roar 

Down to the harbor-bars ; 
Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare 
On rainy nights ; with street and 
square 

Lie empty to the stars. 
From terrace proud to alley base 
I know thee as my mother's face. 

When sunset bathes thee in his gold, 
In wreaths of bronze thy sides are 
rolled. 
Thy smoke is dusky fire ; 
And, from the glory round thee 
pom-ed. 



A sunbeam like an angel's sword 

Shivers upon a spire. 
Thus have I Matched thee, Terror! 

Dream ! 
While the blue night crept up the 

stream. 

The wild train plunges in the hills, 
He shrieks across the midnight rills; 

Streams through tlie shifting glare, 
The roar and flap of foundry tires, 
That shake with light the sleeping 
shires ; 

And on the moorlands bare 
He sees afar a crown of light 
Hang o'er thee in the hollow night. 

At midnight, when thy suburbs lie 
As silent as a noonday sky 

When larks with heat are mute, 
I love to linger on thy bridge. 
All lonely as a mountain ridge. 

Disturbed but by my foot; 
While the black lazy stream beneath 
Steals from its far-off wilds of heath. 

And through thy heart as through a 

dream. 
Flows on that black disdainful 
' stream; 
All scornfully it flows. 
Between the huddled gloom of masts, 
Silent as pines unvexed by blasts — 
'Tween lamps in streaming rows, 
O wondrous sight! O stream of 
dread ! 

long, dark river of the dead ! 

Afar, the banner of the year 
Unfurls : but dimly prisoned here, 

'Tis only when I greet 
A dropt rose lying in my way, 
A butterfly that llutters gay 

Athwart the noisy street. 

1 know the happy Summer smiles 
Aroimd thy suburbs, miles on miles. 

'Twere neither ptean now, nor dirge, 
The flash and thunder of the surge 

On flat sands wide and bare ; 
No haunting joy or anguish dwells 
In the green light of sunny dells. 

Or in the starry air. 
Alike to me the desert flower. 
The rainbow laughingo'er theshower. 



SMITH. 



507 



AVhile o'erthy walls the darknesssails, 
I lean against the churchyard rails ; 

Up in the midnight towers 
The helfried sj^ire, the street is dead, 
I hear in silence overliead 

The clang of iron hovn's : 
It moves me not — I know her tomb 
Is yonder in the shapeless gloom. 

All raptures of this mortal breath, 
Solemnities of life and death, 

Dwell in thy noise alone : 
Of me thou hast become a part — 
Some kindred with my human heart 

Lives in thy streets of stone; 
For we have been familiar more 
Than galley-slave and weary oar. 

The beech is dipped in Avine; the 

shower 
Is burnished ; on the swinging flower 



The latest bee doth sit 
The low sun stares through dust of 

gold. 
And o'er the darkening heath and 
wold 
The large ghost-moth doth flit. 
In every orchard Autumn stands, 
With apples in his golden hands. 

But all these sights and sounds are 

strange ; 
Then wherefore from thee should I 

range ? 
Thou hast my kith and kin ; 
My childhood, youth, and manhood 

brave ; 
Thou hast that unforgotten grave 

Within thy central din. 
A sacredness of love and death 
Dwells in thy noise and smoky 

breath. 



Charlotte Smith. 



THE CRICKET. 

Little inmate, full of mirth. 
Chirping on my humble hearth; 
Wheresoe'er be thine abode. 
Always harbinger of good. 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song most soft and sweet; 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a song as I can give. 

Tliough in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akin to thee, 
Thou sin-passest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are; 
Theirs is but a summer-song, 
Tliine endures the winter long. 
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear. 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy lay : 
Then, insect ! let thy simple song 
Cheer the Avinter evening long; 
While, secm"e from every storm. 
In my cottage stout and warm. 
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be, 
And I" 11 delight to shelter thee. 



THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 

The garlands fade that Spring so 
lately wove, 
Each simple flower which she had 
nursed in dew, 
Anemones that spangled every grove, 
The primrose wan, and harebell 
mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the 
dell, 
Or purple orchis variegate the 
l^lain. 
Till Spring again shall call forth ev(>ry 
bell, 
And dress with humid hands her 
wreaths again. 
Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so 
fair. 
Are the fond visions of thy early 
day, 
Till tyrant passion and corrosive 
care 
Bid all thy fairy colors fade awaj'! 
Another May new biuls and flowers 

shall bring; 
Ah! why has Happiness no second 
Spring ? 



508 



SMITH. 



Florence Smith. 



{From liainbow-Sovgs.] 

THE PURPLE OF THE POET. 

I 

Purple, the passionate color! 

Purple, the color of pain ! 
I clothe myself in the rapture — 

I count the suffering gain ! 

The sea lies gleaming before me. 
Pale in the smile of the sun — 

No shadow — all golden and azure — 
The joy of the day has begiui ! 

Throbbing and yearning forever. 
With longing unsatisfied, sweet — 

Flushed with the pain and the raptm-e, 
Warm at the sun-god's feet — 

In the glow and gloom of the evening 
The glory is reached — and o'er- 
past ; 
Joy's rose-bloom has ripened to pur- 
ple — 
'Twill fade, but the stars shine at 
last! 

Purple, the passionate color! 

Robing the martyr, the king — 
Regal in joy and in anguish, ' 

Life's blossom ; with, ah! its 
sting — 

Give me the sovereign color — 
I'll suffer that I may reign! 

The poet's moment of ra^iture 
Is worth the poet's jmin! 



[ From Pain how-Songs.] 
THE YELLOW OF THE MISER. 

The beautiful color — the color of 

gold ! 
How it sparkles and burns in the 

piled-up dust! 
The poets ! they know not, they never 

have told 
Of the fadeless color, the color of 

gold — 
Of my god in whom I trust ! 
Deep down in the earth it winds 

and it creeps — 



In her sluggish old veins 'tis the warm 

rich blood — 
The old mother-monster ! how soimd- 

ly she sleeps ! 
Come! nearest her heart, where the 

strong life leaps — 
We drink, we bathe in the flood ! 

Ah, the far-off days! was I ever a 

child ? 
— My brain is so dark, and my heart 

has grown cold. 
Those fields where the golden-eyed 

buttercups smiled 
Long ago — did I love them with 

heart undefiled '? 
Did I seek the flowers for the 

gold ? 

Be still ! O thou traitor Remorse, 

at my heart. 
Whining without in the dark at the 

door — 
I know thee, the beggar and thief 

that thou art, 
Lying low at my threshold — I bid 

thee depart! 
Thou shalt dog my footsteps no 

more. 

Wilt thou bring me i\\o faded flow- 
ers of my youth — 

With hands full of dead leaves, and 
lips full of lies — 

For these shall I yield thee my treas- 
ure, in sooth ? 

Are the buttercup's petals pure gold, 
say truth! 
Wilt thou coin me the daisy's 
eyes ? - 

I hate them ! the smiling flowers in 
the sun, 
And the yellow, smooth rays that 

they feed on at noon — 
Tis the hard cold gold I will have or 

none ! 
Come, pluck me the stars down, one 
by one, 
Plant me the pale rich moon ! 



Ah ! the mystical seed, it has grown, 
it has spread ! 
— But the sharp star-points tliey are 

piercing my brow, 
And tlie rosy home-faces grow hvid 

and dead 
In the terrible color the fire-blossoms 
shed — 
I am reaping my harvest in now ! 

The horrible color — the color of 
flame ! 
The hot sun has o'erflowed from his 

broken urn — 
O thou pitiless sky ! wilt thou show 

me my shame ? 
While the cursed gold clings to my 
fingers like flame — 
And glitters only to burn ! 



SOMEBODY OLDER. 

How pleasant it is that always 
There's somebody older than you — 

Some one to pet and caress you, 
Some one to scold you too ! 

Some one to call you a baby, 

To laugh at you when you're wise; 

Some one to care when you're sorry. 
To kiss the tears from your eyes. 

When life has begun to be weary. 
And youth to melt like the dew. 

To know, like the little children. 
Somebody's older than you! 

The path cannot be so lonely, 
For some one has trod it before ; 

The golden gates are the nearer. 
That some one stands at the door ! 

— I can think of nothing sadder 
Than to feel, when days are few, 

There's nobody left to lean on, 
Nobody older than you ! 

The younger ones may be tender 
To the feeble steps and slow ; 

But they can't talk the old times 
over — 
Alas ! how should they know ! 



'Tisa romance to them — a wonder 
You were ever a child at play; 

But the dear ones waiting in Heaven 
Know it is all as you say. 

I know that the great All-Father 
Loves us and the little ones too ; 

Keep only child-like hearted — 
Heaven is older than you! 



UNUEQUITING. 

I CANNOT love thee, but I hold thee 
dear — 
Thou must not stay — I cannot bid 
thee go ! 
I am so lonely, and the end draws 
near — 
Ah, love me still, but do not tell 
me so ! 

'Tis but a little longer — keep thy 
faith ! 
Though love's last rapture I shall 
never know, 
I fain would trust thee even unto 
death ; 
Ah, love me still, but do not tell 
me so ! 

I am so poor I have no self to give. 
And less than all I will not offer, 
no! 
I die, but not for thee — fain would 
I live — 
Ay! love me still, but do not tell 
me so ! 

Like a strange flower that blossoms 
in the night. 
And dies at dawn, love faded long 
ago — 
Born in a dream it perished with the 
light — 
Lov'st thou me still ? Ah, do not 
tell me so ! 

Let me imagine that thou art my 
friend — 
No less — no more I ask for here 
below ! 
Be patient with me even to the end — 
Loving me still, thou wilt not tell 
me so! 



510 



SMITE. 



Those words were sweet once — never 



more a2;ain 



— I thought my dream had van- 
ished, let it go! 
I dreamed of joy — 1 woke, it turned 
to pahi — [so ! 

All, love me still, but never tell me 

I cannot lose thee yet, so near to 
heaven ! 
There with diviner love all souls 
shall glow; 



There is no marriage bond, no vows 
are given — 
Thou'lt love me still, nor need to 
tell me so ! 

Ah! I am selfish, asking even this — 
I cannot love thee, nor yet bid thee 
go! 
To utter love is nigh love's dearest 
bliss — 
Thou lov'st me still, and dost not 
tell me so! 



Horace Smith. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with 
morn to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's 
creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars 
sprinkle 

As a libation! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending 

lowly 

Before the uprisen sun — God's 

lidless eye — [holy 

Throw from your chalices a sweet and 

Incense on liigh! 

Ye briglit mosaics ! that with storied 
beauty 
The floor of Nature's temple tes- 
sellate, 
What numerous emblems of instruc- 
tive duty 

Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral 
bell that swingeth 
And tolls its perfume on the pass- 
ing air, 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever 
ringeth 

A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes wliere crumbling 
arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal 
hand, 



But to that fane, most catholic and 
solemn, 

Whicli God hath planned ; 

To that catliedral, boundless as our 
wonder. 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun 
and moon supply — 
Its choir, the winds and waves ; its 
organ, tlimider ; 

Its dome the sky. 

There — as in solitude and shade I 
Avander 
Through the green aisles, or, 
stretched upon the sod. 
Awed by the silence, reverently pon- 
der 

The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are 
living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a 
book. 
Supplying to my fancy, numerous 
teachers 

From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles! that in deAAy sjilen- 
dor 
"Weep without Avoe, and blush 
witliout a crime," 
O may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- 
render, 

Your lore sublime! 



SMITH. 



511 



" Thou wert not. Solomon! in all thy 
glory. 
Arrayed,'" the lilies cry, "in robes 
like oiu's ; 
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how 
transitory 

Are human flowers !' ' 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heav- 
enly Artist! 
With which thou paintest Nature's 
wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou im- 
partest 

Of love to all. 

Not useless are ye, flowers! though 
made for pleasure: 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by 
day and night. 
From every source your sanction bids 
me treasure 

Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages! what instructors 

hoary 
For such a world of thought could 

furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a ineihento niori, 

Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like col- 
lection ! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred 
in earth. 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection. 
And second birth. 

Were I. O God. in churchless lands 
remaining. 
Far from all voice of teachers or 
divines. 
My soul would find in flowers of thy 
ordaining. 

Priests, sermons, shrines! 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 

And thou hast walked about, (how 
strange a stoiy!) 
In Thebes's streets three thousand 
years ago, 



When the Memnonium was in all its 
glory. 
And Time had not begun to over- 
throw 

Those temples, palaces, and piles 
stupendous. 

Of which the very ruins are tremen- 
dous. 

Speak! for thou long enough hast 

acted dummy ; 
Thou hast a tongue — come — let 

us hear its tune ; 
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above 

ground, mummy! 
Kevisiting the glimpses of the 

moon — 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied 

creatures. 
But with thy bones, and flesh, and 

limbs, and featui'es. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst 

recollect — 
To whom should we assign the 

Sphinx's fame ? 
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
Of either Pyramid that bears his 

name ? 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung 

by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and for- 
bidden 
By oath to tell the secret of thy 
trade — 

Then say what secret melody was 
hidden 
In Memnon's statue, which at sun- 
rise played ; 

Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so. 
my struggles 

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns 
its juggles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pin- 
ioned flat. 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 
glass to glass; 
Or dropped a half -penny in Homer's 
hat; 
Or doffed thine own, to let Queen 
Dido pass; 



512 



SMITH. 



Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
A torch at the great Temple's dedica- 
tion. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, 

when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and 

knuckled ; 
For thou wert dead, and buried, and 

embalmed, 
Ere Ivomulus and Remus had been 

suckled ; 
Antiquity appears to have begun 
Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could' st develop — if that with- 
ered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless 
orbs have seen — 

How the world looked when it was 
fresh and young, 
And the great Deluge still had left 
it green; Ipages 

Or was it then so old that history's 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent, incomnuuiicative elf! 
Art swoi'n to secrecy ? then keep 
thy vows ; 

But prythee tell vis something of 
thyself — 
Reveal the secrets of thy prison- 
house ; 

Since in the world of spirits thou 
hast slumbered — 

What hast thou seen — ^what strange 
adventures numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box 

extended 
We have, above ground, seen some 

strange mutations ; 
The Roman empire has begun and 

ended — 
New worlds have risen — Ave have 

lost old nations; 
And countless kings have into dust 

been humbled. 
While not a fragment of thy flesh has 

crumbled. 



Didst thou not hear the pother o'er 

thy head. 
When the great Persian conqueror, 

Cambyses, 
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with 

thundering tread — 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, 

Isis; 
And shook the Pyramids with fear 

and wonder. 
When the gigantic Memnon fell 

asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be con- 
fessed. 
The nature of thy private life un- 
fold: 

A heart has throbbed beneath that 
leathern breast, 
And tears adown that dusky cheek 
have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees 
and kissed that face ; 

What was thy name and station, age 
and race ? 

Statue of flesh! Immortal of the 
dead ! 
Imperishable type of evanescence ! 

Posthumous man, who quit' st thy 
narrow bed. 
And standest undecayed within our 
presence ! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judg- 
ment morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill 
thee \\ith its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument 
endure, 
If its undying guest be lost for- 
ever ? 

Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed 
and pure 
In living virtue— that when both 
must sever. 

Although corruption may our frame 
consume. 

The immortal spirit in the skies may 
bloom ! 



SMITH. 



513 



May Riley Smith. 



IF. 

If, sitting with this Httle worn-out 
shoe 
And scarlet stocking lying on niy 
knee, 
I knew his little feet had pattered 
through 
The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt 
heaven and nie, 
I should be reconciled and happy too, 
And look with glad eyes toward the 
jasper sea. 

If, in the morning, when the song of 
birds. 
Reminds me of lost music far more 
sweet, 
I listened for his pretty broken words. 
And for the nuisic of his dimpled 
feet, 
I could be almost happy, though I 
heard 
No answer, and I saw his vacant 
seat. 

I could be glad if, when the day is 

done, 

And all its cares and heart-aches 

laid away, [sun, 

I couUl look westward to the hidden 

And. with a heart full of sweet 

yearnings, say — 

" To-night I'm nearer to my little one 

By just the travel of a single day." 

If he were dead, I should not sit to- 
day 
And stain with tears the wee sock 
on my knee; 
I should not kiss the tiny shoe and say, 
" Bring back again my little boy 
to me ! ' ' 
I should be patient, knowing it was 
God's way. 
And wait to meet him o'er death's 
silent sea. 

But oh ! to know the feet, once pure 
and white, 
The haunts of vice have boldly ven- 
tured in I 



The hands that shoidd have battled 
for the right 
Have been wrung crimson in the 
clasp of sin ! 
And should he knock at Heaven's 
gate to-night, 
I fear my boy could hardly enter in. 



SOMETIME. 

Sometime, when all life's lessons 

have been learned. 
And sun and stars forevermore 

have set. 
The things which oin- weak judg- 
ments here have spurned, 
The things o'er which we grieved 

with lashes wet, 
Will flash before us out of life's dark 

night. 
As stars shine most in deeper tints 

of blue; 
And we shall see how all God's plans 

are right. 
And how what seemed reproof was 

love most true. 

And we shall see how, while we 
frown and sigh, 
God's plans go on as best for you 
and me; 
How, when we called. He heeded not 
our cry. 
Because His wisdom to' the end 
could see. 
And e'en as prudent parents disallow 
Too much of sweet to craving baby- 
hood, 
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us 
now 
Life's sweetest things, because it 
seemeth good. 

And if, sometimes, commingled with 
life's wine. 
We find the wormwood, and rebel 
and shrink. 
Be sure a wiser hand than yours or 
mine 
Pours out the potion for our lips to 
drink; 



514 



SOU THEY. 



And if some friend we love is lying 
low. 

Where human kisses cannot reach his 
face. 

Oh, do not hlame the loving Father so, 
But wear your sorrow with obe- 
dient grace! 

And you shall shortly know that 
lengthened breath 
Is not tiie sweetest gift God sends 
His friend, 
And that, sometimes, the sable pall 
of death 
Conceals the fairest boon His love 
can send. [life. 

If we could push ajar the gates of 
And stand within and all God's 
workings see. 



We could interpret all this doubt and 

strife [key. 

And for each mystery could find a 

But not to-day. Then be content, 

poor heart; , 

God's plans like lilies ])ure and 

white luifold; 
We must not tear the close-shut 

leaves apart, [gold. 

Time will reveal the calyxes of 

And if, through patient toil, Ave 

reach the land 
Whei'e tired feet, with sandals 

loosed, may rest. 
When we shall clearly know and 

understand, 
1 think that we shall say, " (iod 

knew the best! " 




Caroline Bowles Southey. 



LAUXCn THY HARK, MAUI MCI!. 

Launch thy bark, mariner! 

Christian, God speed thee: 
Let loose the rudder bands. 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tem))ests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily. 

Christian, steer home! 

Look to the weather bow. 

Breakers are round thee : 
Let fall the plunnnet now. 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast! 
So — let the vessel wear, — 

There swept the blast. 

What of the night, watchman '? 

What of the night ? 
'"Cloudy, all quiet, — 

No land yet, — all's riijht." 
Be wakeful, be vigilant. — 

Danger may be 
7^t an hour wlien all seemeth 

Seciu'est to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast ? 
Clear out the hold, — 



Hoist up thy merchandise, 
Heave out thy gold ; 

There, let the ingots go; — 
Now the ship riglits; 

Hurrah! the harbor's near, - 
Lol the red lights. 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land; 
Crowd all thy canvas on. 

Cut through the foam : — 
Christian! cast anchor now, ■ 

Heaven is tliy home! 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-RED. 

Ti;eai) softly! bow the head — 
In revei'ent silence bow ! 

No passing bell doth toll; 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger, however great. 

With lowly reverence bow! 
There's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 




SOUTHS Y 



515 



Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 
Enter! — no crowds attend — 
Enter! — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

Tliat pavement damp and cold 
No smiling courtiers tread ; 

One silent woman stands. 

Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone; 
A sob sujipressed — again 
That short deep gas]) — and then 

The parting groan ! 

O change ! — O wondrous change ! 

Uurst are the prison bars! 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized — and now 

Beyond the stars ! 



O change ! — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod ! 
The sun eternal breaks; 
The new immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his C4od. 



/ NEVER CAST A ELOWER AWAY. 

I NEVER cast a flower away, ' 

The gift of one who cared for me — 

A little flower — a faded flower — 
But it was done reluctantly. 

I never looked a last adieu 

To things familiar, but my heart 

Shrank with a feeling almost pain 
Even from their lifeleSsness to part. 

1 never spoke the word " Farewell,"' 
But with an utterance faint and 
broken ; 

An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall nevermore be spoken, 



Robert Southey. 



[From Thalabn.] 

A'A TERE'S QUEST/OX AXD FAITH'S 
ANS WER. 

Alas! the setting sun 
Saw Zeinab in her bliss, 
Hodeirah's wife beloved. 
Alas ! the wife beloved. 
The fruitful mother late. 
Whom when the daughters of Arabia 
named. 
They wished their lot like hers, — 
She Avanders o'er the desert sands 
A wretched widow now; 
The fruitful mother of so fair a race. 
With only one preserved. 
She wanders o'er the wilderness. 

No tear relieved the burden of 
her heart; 
Stunned with the heavy woe, she 
felt like one. 
Half -wakened from a midnight dream 
of blood. 
But sometimes, when the boy 



Would wet her hand with tears. 
And, looking up to her fixed coun- 
tenance. 
Sob out the name of mother! then 
she groaned. 
At length collecting, Zeinab turned 
her eyes 
To heaven, and praised the Lord: 
" He gave, he takes away! " 
The pious sufferer cried ; 
" The Lord our God is good ! " 

" Good, is he ?'' quoth the boy: 
"Why are my brethren and :iiy sis- 
ters slain ? 
Why is my father killed ? 
Did ever we neglect our prayers, 
Or ever lift a hand unclean to 
Heaven ? 
Did ever stranger from our tent 
Unwelcomed turn away ? 
Mother, He is not good!" 

Then Zeinab beat her breast in 
agony, — 
" O God, forgive the child I 



51G 



SOU THEY 



He knows not what he says ; 


The hand that wisely woxmded it. 


Thou know'st I did not teach him 


Repine not, my son ! 


thoughts like these; 


In wisdom and in mercy Heaven 


O Pi'opliet, pardon him! " 


inflicts 




Its painful remedies." 


Slie had not wept till that assuag- 




ing prayer ; 




The fountains of her grief were 




opened then. 


[From Thalaba.] 


And tears relieved her heart. 


THE TWOFOLD POWER OF ALL 


She raised her swimming eyes to 


THINGS. 


heaven, — 




" Allah I thy will be done! 


All things have a double power, 


Beneath the dispensations of that 


Alike for good and evil. The same 


will 


fire. 


I groan, but nuirmur not. 


That on the comfortable hearth 


A day" will come when all things 


at eve 


that are dark 


Warmed the good man, flames o'er 


Will be made clear: then sliall I 


the house at night: 


know, Lord ! 


Should we for this forego 


Why, in thy mercy, thou hast 


Tlie needful element ? 


stricken me ; 


Because the scorching summer 


Then see and understand what 


sun 


now 
My heart believes and feels." 


Darts fever, woiddst thou quench the 
orb of day ? 




Or deemest thou that Heaven in 




anger formed 




Iron to till the field, because, 


[From Thalaba.] 






when man 


REMEDIAL tiUFFElilNG. 


Had tipt his arrows for the chase, 
he rushed 




A murderer to the war '? 


" Repine not, O my son!" the old 




man replied. 




" That Heaven hath chastened thee. 




Behold this vine: 




I found it a wild tree, whose wan- 


[From Thafaha.] 


ton strength 


NIGHT. 


Had swoln into irregular twigs. 




And bold excrescences, 


How beautiful is night ! 


And spent itself in leaves and lit- 


A dewy freshness fills" the silent 


tle rings; 


air; 


So, in the floin-ish of its out- 


No mist obscures, nor cloud nor speck 


wardness. 


nor stain 


AVasting the sap and strength 


Breaks the serene of heaven; 


That should liave given forth 


In full-orbed glory yonder moon 


fruit. 


divine 


But when I pruned the plant. 


Rolls through the dark blue 


Then it grew temperate in its 


depths. 


vain expense 


Beneath her steady ray 


Of useless leaves, and knotted, as 


The desert-circle spreads. 


thou seest. 


Like the romid ocean, girdled with 


Into these full, clear clusters, to 


the sky. 


repay 


How beautiful is night! 



SOUTHEY. 



511 



[From The Cume of Keliamn.] 
LOVE'S IMMORTALITY. 

TiiEY sill who tell us love can die. 
With life all other passions tiy. 

All others are but vanity. 
In heaven, Ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell; 
Earthly, these passions of the earth 
They perish where tliev had their 
birth. 

But Love is indestructible. 
Its holy flaine forever burnetii. 
From heaven it came, to heaven re- 

turneth. 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest. 
At times deceived, at times oppressed, 

It here is tried and puritied. 
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest; 
It sowetli here with toil and care, 
But the harvest-time of Love is there. 
Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
The babe she lost in infancy. 
Hath she not then, for pains and 
fears. 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 
For all her sorrows, all her tears, 

An over-ioayment of delight I 




THE OLD MAX'S COMFORTS. AND 
HOW HE GAINED THEM. 

You are old. Father William, the 
young man cried. 
The few locks that are left you are 
gray : 
You ai'c hale. Father W'illiam, a 
hearty old man, 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father Wil- 
liam replied, 
I remembered that youth would fly 
fast, 
And abused not my health and my 
vigor at first. 
That i never might need them at 
last. 

You are old, Father William, the 
young man cried. 
And pleasures with youth pass 
away. 



And yet you lament not the days that 
are gone. 
Now tell me the reason, 1 pray. 

In the days of my youth. Father Wil- 
liam replied, 
I remembered that youth could not 
last ; 
I thought of the future, whatever I 
did. 
That I never might grieve for the 
past. 

You are old. Father William, the 
young man cried. 
And life must be hastening away : 
You are cheerful, and love to con- 
verse upon death ! 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

I am cheerful, young man. Father 
William replied ; 
Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
In the days of my youth I remem- 
bered my God ! 
And he hath not forgotten mv age. 



[ From Joan of Arc.'] 

THE MAID OF ORLEANS GIRDING 
FOR BATTLE. 

Sc'AKCE had the earliest ray from 

Chinon's towers 
Made visible the mists that curled 

along 
The winding waves of Yienne, when 

from her couch 
Started the martial maid. She 

mailed her limbs: 
The white plumes nodded o'er her 

helmed head; 
She girt the sacred falchion by her 

side. 
And, like some youth that from his 

mother's arms. 
For his first field impatient, breaks 

away. 
Poising the lance Avent forth. 

Twelve hundred men, 
Bearing in ordered ranks their well- 
sharped spears, 



518 



SOU THEY. 



Await her coming. Terrible in arms, 

Before tlicm towered Dmiois, his 
manly face 

Dark-shadowed by the helmet's iron 
cheeks. 

The assembled covirt gazed on the 
marshalled train, 

And at the gate the aged prelate stood 

To pour his blessing on the chosen 
host. 

And now a soft and solemn sym- 
phony 

Was heard," and chanting high the 
hallowed hynni, 

From the near convent came the ves- 
tal maids. 

A holy banner, woven by virgin 
hands. 

Snow-white, they bore. A mingled 
sentiment 

Of awe, and eager ardor for the 
fiilht. 

Thrilled" through the troops, as he, 
the reverend man 

Took the white standard, and with 
heavenward eye 

Called on the C4od of .Justice, bless- 
ing; it. 

The maid, her brows in reverence 
unhelmed. 

Her dark hair floating on the morn- 
ing gale. 

Knelt to" iiis prayer, and stretching 
forth her hand, 

Received the mystic ensign. From 
the host 

A loud and universal shout burst 
forth. 

As rising from the ground, on her 
white brow 

Slie placed the plumed casque, and 
waved on high 

The bannered lilies. 



THE HOLLY-TnEE. 

O READKii! hast thou ever stood to 
see 
The holly-tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well 
perceives 
Its glossy leaves 



Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's 
sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are 

seen 
Wrinkled and keen. 
No grazing cattle through their 

prickly round 
Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is 

to fear. 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless 

leaves appear. 

I love to view these things with cu- 
rious eyes. 
And moralize; 
And in the wisdom of the holly-tree 

Can emblems see 
Wlierewith perchance to make a 

pleasant rhyme. 
Such as may profit in the after-time. 

So, though abroad perchance I might 
appear 
Harsh and austere. 

To those who on my leisure would in- 
trude 
Reserved and rude ; 

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd 
be. 

Like the high leaves upon the holly- 
tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, 
I know. 
Some harshness show. 
All vain asperities, I day by day 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age 

should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly- 
tree. 

And as when all the summer trees 
are seen 
So bright and green 

The holly' leaves their fadeless hues 
display 
Less bridit than they. 

But when the bare and wintry woods 
we see. 

What then so cheerful as the holly- 
tree ? 



sou THEY. 



519 



So serious should my youth appear 
among 
The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem au;id the young and 

gay 

More grave than they. 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly-tree. 



THE PAUPER'S FUXEHAL. 

AViiat! and not one to heave the 
l^ious sigh '? 

Not one whose sorrow-swollen and 
aching eye 

For social scenes, for life's endear- 
ments fled. 

Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the 
dead ! 

Poor wretched outcast! I will weep 
for thee. 

And sorrow for forlorn humanity. 

Yes. I will weep; but not that thou 
art come 

To the stern sabbath of the silent 
tomb : 

For squalid want, and the black scor- 
pion care, 

Heart-withering fiends I shall never 
enter there. 

I sorrow for the ills thy life hath 
known, 

As through the world's long pilgrim- 
age, alone. 

Haunted by poverty, and M'oebegone. 

Unloved, unfriended, thou didst jour- 
ney on : 

Thy youth in ignorance and labor 
past. 

And thine old age all barrenness and 
blast. 

Hard was thy fate, wdiicli, while it 
doomed to woe. 

Denied thee wisdom to support tlie 
blow ; 

And robbed of all its energy thy mind. 

Ere yet it cast tliee on thy fellow- 
kind. 

Abject of thought, the victim of dis- 
tress, 

To wander in the world's wide wilder- 
ness. 



Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the win- 
try storm 

Blows bieak no more on thy unshel- 
tered form; 

Thy woes are past; thou restest in 
the tond); — 

I i^ause, and ponder on the days to 
come. 



WniTTEX^ ON SUNDAY MORNING. 

Go thou and seek the house of 

prayer ! 
I to the w^oodlands wend, and there 
In lovely nature see the God of love. 
The swelling organ's peal 
Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
Like the wild music of the wind- 
swept grove. 
The gorgeous altar and the mystic 

vest 
Rouse not such ai'dor in my breast. 
As where the noon-tide beam 
Flashed from the brolven stream, 
Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; 
Or where the cloud-suspended rain 
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain"; 
Or when reclining on the cliff's huge 

height, 
I mark the billows burst in silver 
light. 

Go thou and seek the house of 



prayer 



I to the woodlands shall repair. 
Feed with all nature's charms mine 

eyes. 
And hear all nature's melodies. 
The primrose bank shall there dis- 
pense 
Faint fragrance to the awaken(>d 

sense : 
The morning beams that life and 

joy impart. 
Shall with their influence warm my 

heart, 
And the full tear that down my 

cheek will steal. 
Shall speak the prayer of praise I 

feel. 

Go thou and seek the hous,' of 
prayer ! 



I to the woodlands bend my way 

And meet Keligion there. 
She needs not haunt the high-arched 

dome to pray 
Where storied windows dim the 

doubtful day. 
AVith Liberty she loves to rove, 
Wide o'er the heathy hill or cow- 

slipt dale; 
Or seek the shelter of the embower- 
ing grove, 
Or with the streamlet wind along 

the vale. 
Sweet are these scenes to her; and 

when the night 
Pours in the north her silver streams 

of light, . 
She woos reflection in the silent 

gloom, 
And ponders on the world to come. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a summer evening. 
Old Kaspar's work was done; 

And he before his cottage door 
AVas sitting in the sun, 

And by him sported on the green 

His little grandchild AVilhehnine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Iioll something large and round, 

That he beside the rivulet 
In playing there, had found; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and 
round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

AVho stood expectant by : 
And then the old man shook his head, 

AikI with a natural sigh, 
'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, 
AVho fell in the great victory. 

I find them in the garden, for 

There's many hereabout. 
And often when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out; 
For many thousand men, said he, 
AVere slain in the great victory. 



Now tell us what 'twas all about, 

Young Peterkin he cries. 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

AA''ith wonder-waiting eyes; 
Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they killed each other for. 

It was the English, Kaspar cried. 
That put the Fi-ench to rout; 

But what they killed each other for, 
1 could not well make out. 

But everybody said, quoth he, 

That 'twas a famous victory. 

My father lived at Blenheim then. 
Yon little stream hard by. 

They burnt his dwelling to the 
ground. 
And he was forced to fly; 

So with his wife and child lie fled. 

Nor had he where to rest his head. 

AA^ith fire and sword the country 
round 
AA^as wasted far and wide, 
And many a chikling mother then. 

And new-born infant, died : 
But things like that, you know, nuist 

be 
At every famous victory. 

They say it was a shocking sight. 

After the field was won. 
For many thousand liodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must 

be" 
After a famous victory. 

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' 
won. 

And our good Prince Eugene. 
AA'liy. 'twas a very kicked thing! 

Said little AV'ilhelmine. 
Nay — nay — my little girl, quoth he, 
It was a famous victory. 

And everybody praised the Duke 

AA^ho such a fight did win. 
But what good came of it at last ? 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
AA'hy, that I cannot tell, said he, 
But 'twas a famous victory. 



THE CATARACT OF LODOllE. 

" How does the water 
Come down at Lodore!'" 
My little boy asked me 
Thus, once on a time ; 

And moreover he tasked me 

To tell him in rhyme. 

Anon, at the word; 

There first came one daughter, 

And then came anotlier. 

To second and third 

The request of their brother; 

And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 
AVith its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 
They had seen it before. 
So 1 told them in rhyme. 

For of rhymes I had store ; 

And 'twas in my vocation 
For tlieir recreation 
That so I should sing; 

Because I was laureate 
To them and the kinir. 



From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell ; 
From its fountains 
In the mountains. 
Its rills and its gills; 
Through moss and through brake, 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while, till it sleeps 

In its own little lake. 

And thence at departing. 

Awakening and starting. 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds, 

Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade. 
And through the wood-shelter. 
Among crags in its flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Ilurry-skuny, 
Here it comes sparkling. 
And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 
Till, in this rapid race 
On which it is bent. 
It reaches the place 
Of its steep descent. 



The cataract strong 
Then plunges along. 
Striking and raging 
As if a war waging 
Its caverns and rocks among; 
Rising and leaping. 
Sinking and creeping. 
Swelling and sweeping. 
Showering and springing, 
Flying and flinging. 
Writhing and ringing. 
Eddying and whisking. 
Spouting and frisking. 
Turning and twisting, 
Aroimd and around 
Witli endless rebound : 
Smiting and fighting 
A sight to delight in ; 
Confounding, astounding. 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with 
its sound. 

Collecting, projecting, 
Receding and speeding, 
And shocking and I'ocking, 
And darting and parting. 
And threading and spreading. 
And whizzing and hissing, • 
And dripping and skipping. 
And hitting and splitting. 
And shining and twining, 
And rattling and battling, 
And shaking and quaking. 
And pouring and roaring, 
And waving ancf raving. 
And tossing and crossing. 
And flowing and going. 
And running and stunning, 
And foaming and roaming. 
And dinning and si-inning. 
And dropping and hopping, 
And working and jerking. 
And guggling and struggling. 
And iieaving and cleaving. 
And moaning and groaning; 
And glittering and frittering. 
And gathering and feathering. 
And whitening and brightening. 
And (piivering and shivering. 
Ami hurrying and skurrying. 
And thundermgand floundering; 

Dividing and gliding and sliding. 
And falling and brawling and 
sprawling. 



b'2-2 



sour HEY. 



And driving and riving and striv- 
ing, 

xind sprinkling and twinlcling and 
wrinkling, 

And sounding and bounding and 
rounding, 

And bubbling and troubling and 
doubling. 

And grumbling and rumbling and 
tumbling. 

And clattering and battering and 
shattering; 



Retreating and beating and meeting 
and sheeting. 

Delaying and straying and playing 
and spraying, 

Advancing and prancing and glancing 
and dancing, 

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and 
boiling, 

And gleaming and streaming and 
steaming and beaming. 

And rushing and Hushing and brush- 
ing and gushing. 

And flapping and rapping and clap- 
ping, and slapping. 

And curling and whirling and purl- 
ing and twirling. 

Ami thumping antl plumping and 
bumping and jumping. 

And dashing and flashing and splash- 
ing and aiashing; 

And so never ending, but always de- 
scending. 

Sounds and motions forever and ev^er 
are blending 

All rtt once, and all o'er, with a 
mighty uproar, — 

And this way, the water conies down 
at Lodore. 



THE EUn-TIDE. 

Slowly thy flowing tide 
Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did 

mine eyes. 
As watchfully 1 roamed thy green- 
wood side, 
Behold the gentle rise. 



With many a stroke and strong. 
The laboring boatmen upward plied 

their oars, 
And yet the eye beheld them labor- 
ing long 
Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlabored boat falls i-apidly 

along, 
The solitary helmsman sits to guide. 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o"er the rocks, that lay 
So silent late, the shallow current 

roars ; 
Fast flow tliy waters on their sea- 
ward way 
Through wider-spreading shores. 

>\_von ! I gaze and know ! 
The wisdom emblemed in thy vary- 
ing way, 
It speaks of human joys that rise so 
slow. 
So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms that long have stood, 
And slow to strength and power at- 
tained at last. 
Thus from the smnmit of high for- 
tune's flood 
Ebb to their ruin fast. 

So tardily appears 
The course of time to manhood's en- 
vied stage, 
Alas! how hurryingly the ebl)i!ig 
years 
'I'hen hasten to old age ! 



TO THE FIRE. 

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear 
and bright. 
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grate- 
ful flame; 
Thy temperate splendor cheers the 
gloom of night. 
Thy geiual heat enlivens the 
chilled frame. 



I lov0 to muse me o'er the evening 
hearth, 
I love to pause in meditation's 
sway; 

And whilst each object gives reflec- 
tion birth, 
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy 
slow decay ; 

And I would wish, like thee, to shine 
serene. 



Like thee, within mine influence, 

all to cheer; 
Anil wish at last in life's declining 

scene, 
As I had beamed as bright, to fade 

as clear: 
So might my children ponder o'er my 

shrine. 
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will 

muse o'er thine. 



Robert Southwell. 



CONTENT AND RICH. 

My conscience is my crown ; 

Contented thoughts, my rest ; 
My heart is happy in itself. 

My bliss is in my breast. 

Enough I reckon wealth ; 

That mean, the surest lot. 
That lies too high for base contempt, 

Too low for envy's shot. 

My wishes are but few ; 

All easy to fulfil: 
I make the limits of my power 

The bounds unto my will. 

I fear no care for gold, 
' Well-doing is my wealth ; 
My mind to me an empire is. 
While grace affordeth health. 

I clip high-climbing thoughts. 
The wings of swelling pride; 

Their fall is worst that from the height 
Of greatest honor slide. 

Since sails of largest size 
The storm doth soonest tear, 

I bear so low and small a sail 
As f reeth me from fear. 

I wrestle not witli rage 
While fury's flame doth burn; 



It is in vain to stop the stream 
lentil the tide doth turn. 

Tjut when the flame is out. 
And ebbing wrath doth end, 

I turn a late enraged foe 
Into a quiet friend. 

And, taught with often proof, 

A tempered calm I And 
To be most solace to itself. 

Best cure for angry mind. 

Spare diet is my fare. 

My clothes more ht than flue; 
I know I feed and clothe a foe. 

That pampered would repine. 

I envy not their hap 
Whom favor doth advance; 

I take no pleasure in their pain 
That have less happy chance. 

To rise by others' fall 

I deem a losing gain ; 
All states with others' ruin built 

To ruin run amain. 

Xo change of Fortune's calm 
Can cast my comforts down : 

When Fortune smiles, 1 smile to think 
How quickly she will frown. 

And when, in froward mood, 

She proved an angry foe, 
Small gain, I found, to let her come — 

Less loss to let her go. 



524 



SPENCER— SPENSER. 



Robert William Spencer. 



THE SPEED OF HAPPY HO UPS. 

Too late I stayed— forgive the crime- 
Unheeded flew the hours : 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers I 

And who, with clear account, remarks 
The ebbings of his glass, 



When all its sands are diamond 
sparks, 
That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their ijlumage to his wings ? 



Edmund Spenser. 



\_From The Epi halamium.] 

THE BUIDE BEAUTIFUL, BODY 
AND SOUL. 

Now is my love all ready forth to 

come : 
Let all the virgins therefore well 

await ; 
And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon 

her groom. 
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming 

straight. 
Set all your things in seemly good 

array. 
Fit for so joyful day : 
The joyfuU'st day that ever sun did 

see. 
Fair sun! show forth thy favorable 

ray, 
And let thy lifef ul heat not fervent be, 
For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 
Her beauty to disgrace. 
O fairest Phrebus ! father of the Muse ! 
If ever I did honor thee aright, 
Or sing the thing that might thy 

mind delight. 
Do not thy servant's simple boon 

refuse. 
But let this day, let this one day be 

mine; 
Let all the rest be thine. 
Then I thy sovereign praises loud will 

sing. 
That all the woods shall answer, and 

their echo ring. 



Lo! where she comes along with 

portly pace. 
Like Phcebe, from her chamber of 

the east. 
Arising forth to run her mighty race. 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin 

best. 
So well it her beseems, that ye would 

ween 
Some angel she had been. 
Her long loose yellow locks; like 

golden wire 
Sprinkled \\\t\\ pearl, and pearling 

tlowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire; 
And being crowned with a garland 

green. 
Seem like some maiden queen. 
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
So many gazers as on her do stare. 
Upon the lowly ground affixed are; 
Ne dare lift up her countenance too 

bold, 
But blush to hear her praises sung so 

loud. 
So far from being proud. 
Nathless do ye still loud her praises 

sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and 

your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did 
ye see 

So fair a creature in your town be- 
fore '? 



SPENSEB. 



525 



So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as 

she, 
Adorned with beauty's grace and 

virtue's store; 
Her goodly eyes like sapphires shin- 
ing bright, 
Her forehead ivory white. 
Her clieeks like apples which the sun 

hatli ruddied. 
Her lips lilce cherries charming men 

to bile. 
Her breast like to a bowl of cream 

uncrudded. 
Why stand ye still, ye virgins in 

amaze, 
Upon her so to gaze, 
Whiles ye forget yom* former lay to 

sing 
To which the woods did answer, and 

your echo ring ! 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can 

see. 
The inward beauty of her lively 

sprite. 
Garnished with heaven by gifts of 

high degree. 
Much more then would ye wonder at 

that sight. 
And stand astonished like to those 

which read 
Medusa's mazeful head. 
There dwells sweet Love, and con- 
stant Chastity, 
Unspotted Faith, and comely Wom- 
anhood, 
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty; 
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal 

tlirone. 
And giveth laws alone. 
The which the base affections do obey, 
And yield their services unto her 

will: 
Ne thought of things uncomely ever 

may 
Thereto approach to tempt her mind 

to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial 

treasures. 
And unrevealed pleasures. 
Then would ye wonder and her i^raises 

sing. 
That all the woods would answer, and 

your echo ring. 



[From The Faerie Queene.'\ 
THE CAPTIVE SOUL. 

What war so cruel, or what siege so 

sore. 
As that which strong affections do 

apply 
Against the fort of Reason evermore. 
To bring the soul into captivity '> 
Their force is fiercer through infir- 
mity 
Of the frail flesh, relenting to their 

rage ; 
And exercise most bitter tyranny 
Upon the parts brought into their 

bondage ; 
No wretchedness is like to sinful vil- 
lainage. 



[From The Faerie Queene.] 
A VARICE. 

And greedy Avarice by him did ride. 
Upon a camel laden all with gold ; 
Two iron coffers hung on either side. 
With precious metal full as they 

might hold ; 
And in his lap a heap of coin he told : 
For of his wicked pelf his God he 

made, 
And vmto hell himself foi' money sold ; 
Accursed usury was all his trade; 
And right and wrong alike in equal 

balance weighed. 

His life was nigh unto death's door 

yplaced. 
And threadbare coat and cobbled 

shoes he ware ; 
Ne scarce good morsel all his life did 

taste ; 
But both from back and belly still 

did spare. 
To fdl his bags, and riches to com- 
pare ; 
Yet child nor kinsman living had he 

none 
To leave them to; but thorovigh daily 

care 
To get, and nightly fear to lose, his 

own. 
He led a wretched life unto himself 

imknown. 



526 



.SFL-A^SEIi 



Most wretched wight, whom nothing 
might suffice, 

AVhose greedy lust did iaeli. in- great- 
est store, 

Whose need liad end, but no end 
covetize, 

Whose weallli was want, whose 
plenty made him poor, 

Who had enough, yet wished ever- 
more; 

A vile disease; and eke in foot and 
hand 

A grievous gout tormented him full 
sore. 

That well lie could not touch, nor go, 
nor stand. 

Such one was Avarice, the fourth of 
this fair band. 



[Ffoiii Tlic Faerie Queene.] 
UXA AND THE LION. 

Nought is thereunder heaven's wide 

hollowness 
That moves more dear compassion 

of mind 
Than beauty brought t' uuMorthy 

wretchedness 
Through envy's snares, or fortune's 

freaks inikind. 
I, whether lately through her bright- 
ness blind. 
Or through allegiance and fast fealty. 
Which I do owe unto all Avoman- 

kind. 
Feel my heart pierced with so great 

agony. 
When such I see, that all for pity I 

could die. 

And now it is impassioned so deep. 

For fairest Una's sake, of whom 1 
sing. 

That my frail eyes these lines Avith 
tears do steep. 

To think how she through guileful 
handling, 

Though true as touch, though daugh- 
ter of a king. 

Though fair as ever living wight was 
fair, 



Though noi' in word nor deed ill- 
meriting, 

Is from her knight divorced in de- 
spair. 

And her due loves derived to that 
vile witch's share. 

Yet, she most faithful lady all this 

Avhile, 
Forsaken, woful, solitary maid. 
Far from all people's preace, as in 

exile, 
In wilderness and wasteful deserts 

strayed. 
To seek her knight; who, subtily 

betrayed 
Through that late vision, which th" 

Enchanter wrought. 
Had her abandoned. She of nought 

afraid, 
Through woods and wasteness wide 

him daily sought; 
Yet wished tidings none of him unto 

her brought. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome 

way. 
From her uidiasty beast she did 

aliglit. 
And on the grass her dainty limbs 

did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men's 

sight: 
From her fair head her fillet she 

nndight. 
And laid her stole aside. Her an- 
gel's face. 
As the great eye of heaven, shined 

bright. 
And made a sunshine in the shady 

place ; 
Dill never mortal eye behold such 

heavenly grace. 

It fortimed, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage 

blood ; 
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
With gaping mouth at her ran greed- 

To have at once devoured her tender 
corse : 




UNA AND THE LION. 



Page 524. 



SF£!NSER. 



527 



But to the prey whenas he drew 
more nigh, 

His bloody rage assuaged with re- 
morse, 

And, witli the sight amazed, forgot 
his furious force. 

Instead tliereof lie kissed her weary 
feet, 

And licked her lily hands with fawn- 
ing tongue. 

As he her wronged innocence did 
weet. 

Oh, how can beauty master the most 
strong, 

And simple truth subdue avenging 
wrong! 

Whose yielded pride and proud sub- 
mission, 

►Still di-eading death, when she had 
marked long. 

Her heart 'gan melt in great compas- 
sion. 

And drizzling tears did shed for pure 
affection. 



[From The Faerie Qtieene.] 
A HOSPITAL. 

Eftsoones unto an holy hospital. 

That was foreby the way, she did 
him bring; 

In which seven Bead-men, that had 
vowed all 

Their life to service of high heaven's 
king. 

Did spend their days in doing godly 
things: 

Their gates to all were open ever- 
more, 

That by the weary way A\ere travel- 
ling; 

And one sat waiting ever them be- 
fore. 

To call in comers by, that needy were 
and poor. 

The first of them, that eldest was and 
best. 

Of all I lie house had charge and gov- 
ernment, 



As guardian and steward of the 
rest : 

His office was to give entertainment 

And lodging unto all that came and 
went ; 

Not unto such as could him feast 
again. 

And double quite for that he on them 
spent ; 

But such, as want of harbor did con- 
strain : 

Those for God's sake his duty was to 
entertain. 

The second was as almoner of the 

place : 
His office was the hungry for to 

feed. 
And thirsty give to drink ; a work of 

grace ; 
He feared not once himself to be in 

need, 
Ne cared to hoard for those whom 

he did breed : 
The grace of God he laid up still in 

store. 
Which as a stock he left unto his 

seed ; 
He had enough; what need him care 

for more ? 
And had he less, yet some he would 

give to the poor. 

The third had of their wardrobe 

custody. 
In Mhicli were not rich tires, nor 

garments gay. 
The plumes of pride and wings of 

vanity. 
But clothes meet to keep keen cold 

away, 
And naked nature seemly to ari-ay ; 
With which bare wretched wights lie 

daily clad. 
The images of God in earthly clay ; 
And if that no spare clothes to give 

he had. 
His own coat he would cut, and it 

distribute glad. 

The fourth appointed by his office 
was 

Poor prisoners to relieve with gra- 
cious aid, 






528 



SPENSER. 



■r^' 



And captives to redeem with price of 

brass 
From Turks and Saracens, whicli 

tliem liad stayed ; 
And tliougli they faulty were, yet 

well he weighed, 
That God to us forgiveth every hour 
Much more than that, why they in 

bands were laid; 
And he, that harrowed hell with 

heavy store, 
The faulty souls from thence brought 

to his heavenly bower. 

The fifth had charge sick persons to 

attend. 
And comfort those in point of death 

which lay; 
For them most needeth comfort in 

the end, 
When sin, and hell, and death, do 

most dismay 
The feeble soul departing hence 

away. 
All is but lost, that living we bestow. 
If not well ended at our dying day. 
O man, have mind of that last bitter 

throe ; 
For as the tree does fall, so lies it 

ever low. 



[From The Faerie Queene.] 
VICTOR r FROM GOD. 

What man is he that boasts of fleshly 

might 
And vain assurance of mortality? 
Which, all so soon as it doth come to 

fight 
Against spiritual foes, yields by and 

by, 
Or from the field most cowardly doth 

fiy; 

Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill, 



That thorough grace hath gained vic- 
tory. 

If any strength we have, it is to ill; 

But all the good is God's, both power 
and eke will. 



[From The Faerie Queene.] 
AXGELIC CARE. 

And is there care in heaven ? and is 
there love 

In heavenly spirits to these crea- 
tures base. 

That may compassion of their evils 
move ? 

There is : — else much more wretch- 
ed were the case 

Of men than beasts. But oh ! th' ex- 
ceeding grace 

Of Highest God that loves his crea- 
tures so, 

xind all his works with mercy doth 
embrace. 

That blessed angels he sends to and 
fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his 
wicked foe! 

How oft do they their silver bowers 
leave 

To come to succor us that succor 
want ! 

How oft do they with golden pin- 
ions cleave 

The flitting skies, like flying pur- 
suivant, [tant! 

Against foul fiends to aid us mili- 

Tliey for us fight, they watch and 
duly ward. 

And their bright squadrons round 
about us plant ; 

And all for love and nothing for 
re^ai-d ; 
Oh, why should Heavenly God to men 
have such regard ! « 



SPOFFORD. 



529 



Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

HEREAFTER. 

Love, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, 
When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast. 

When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us. 
And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, — 

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth. 
Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; 

Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers. 
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires roimd the happy autumn liearth. 

That's our love. But you and I, dear, — shall we linger with it yet, 
Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one siuibeam's golden net, — 
On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen but you the blossom, 
Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet ? 

Oh, beloved, — if ascending, — when we have endowed the world 
With the best bloom of oiu- being, whither will our way be whirled ; 

Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, 
With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled? 

Only this our yearning answers, — whereso'er that way defile. 
Not a film shall pai't us through the aeons of that mighty while, 

In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, 
Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile! 



THE NUN AND HARP. 

What memory fired her pallid face, 
"Wliat passion stirred her blood. 

What tide of sorrow and desire 
Poured its forgotten flood 

Upon a heart that ceased to beat, 

Long since, with thought that life 
was sweet 

When nights were rich with vernal 
dus^k. 
And the rose burst its bud ? 

Had not the western glory then 

Stolen through the latticed room, 
Her funeral raiment would have shed 

A more heart-breaking gloom ; 
Had not a dimpled convent-maid 
Hung in the doorway, half afraid. 
And left the nielanclioly i)lace 
Bright with her blush and bloom! 



Beside the gilded harp she stood. 
And through the singing strings 

Wound those wan hands of folded 
prayer 
In murnuu'ous preludings. 

Then, like a voice, the harp rang 
high 

Its melody, as climb the sky. 

Melting against the melting blue, 
Some bird's vibrating wings. 



Ah, why, of all the songs that grow 

Forever tenderer. 
Chose she that passionate refrain 

Where lovers 'mid the stir 
Of wassailers that round them i)ass 
Hide their sweet secret ? Now, 

alas. 
In her nim's habit, coifed and veiled. 

What meant that song to her ! 



530 



SPOFFORD. 



Slowly the western ray forsook 

The statue in its shrine; 
A sense of tears thrilled all the air 

Along the purpling line. 
Earth seemed a place of graves that 

rang 
To hollow footsteps, while she sang, 
" Drink to nie only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge Avith mine! " 



OUR NEIGHBOR* 

Old neighbor, for how many a year 
The same horizon, stretching here. 
Has held us in its happy bound 
From Iiivermouth to Ipswich Sound ! 
How many a wave-washed day we've 

seen 
Above that low horizon lean. 
And marked within the Merrimack 
The self-same sunset reddening back. 
Or in the Powow's shining stream. 
That silent river of a dream ! 

Where Craneneck o'er the woody 

gloom 
Lifts her steep inile of apple-bloom : 
AVhere Salisbury Sands, in yellow 

length 
With the great breaker measures 

strength ; 
Where Artichoke in shadow slides, 
The lily on her painted tides — 
There's naught in the enchanted view 
That does not seem a part of you ; 
Your legends hang on every hill, 
Your songs have made it dearer still. 

Yours is the river-road; and yours 
Are all the mighty meadow floors 
Where the loiig Hampton levels lie 
Alone between the sea and sky. 
Fresher in Follymill shall blow 
The Mayflowers, that you loved them 

so; 
Prouder Deer Island's ancient pines 
Toss to their measure in your lines ; 
And purpler gleam old Appledore, 
Because youff oot has trod her shore. 

Still shall the great Cape wade to 

meet 
The storms that fawn about her feet, 



The summer evening linger late 
In many-rivered Stackyard Gate, 
When we, when all your people here, 
Have fled. But like the atmosphere, 
You still the region shall surromid, 
The spirit of the sacred ground. 
Though you have risen, as mounts 

the star, 
Into horizons vaster far! 



PALMISTRY. 

A IJTTLE hand, a fair soft hand 
Dimpled and sweet to kiss : 

No sculptor ever carved from stone 
A lovelier hand than this. 

A hand as idle and as white 

As lilies on their stems ; 
Dazzling with rosy finger-tips, 

Dazzling with crusted gems. 

Another hand, — a tired old hand. 
Written with many lines ; 

A faithful, weary hand, whereon 
The pearl of great price shines! 

For folded, as the winged fly 

Sleeps in the chrysalis. 
Within this little palm I see 

That lovelier hand tban this ! 



* J. G. Whittier. 



FANTASIA. 

We're all alone, we're all alone! 
The moon and stars are dead and 

gone : 
The night's at deep, the wind asleep. 
And thou and I are all alone ! 

What care have we though life there 

be? 
Tumult and life are not for me! 
Silence and sleep about us creep; 
Timiult and life are not for thee! 

How late it is since such as this 
Had topped the height of breathing 

bliss! 
And now we keep an iron sleep, — 
In that grave thou, and I in this ! 



A FOUH-0' CLOCK. 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go ! 
Hang in the heavens forever so! 
Forever in mid-afternoon. 
All, liappy day of hap])y June! 
Pour out tliy sunshine on the hill, 
The piny wood with perfume fill, 
And breathe across the singing sea 
Land-scented breezes, that shall be 
Sweet as the gardens that they pass. 
Where children tumble in the grass ! 

Ah, hajjpy day, refuse to go ! 
Hang in the heavens forever so ! 
And long not for thy blushing rest 
In the soft bosom of the west, 
But bid gray evening get her back 
With all tlie stars upon her track ! 
Forget the dark, forget the dew. 
The mystery of the midnight blue. 
And only spread thy wide warm 
wings [flings! 

While Summer her enchantment 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go! 

Hang in the heavens forever so ! 

Forever let thy tender mist 

Lie lilie dissolving amethyst 

Deep in tlie distant dales, and shed 

Tliy mellow glory overhead ! 

Yet wilt thou wander, — call the 

thrush, 
And have the Avilds and waters hush 
To hear his passion-broken tune. 
Ah, happy day of happy June! 



A SAOIFDROP. 

Only a tender little thing. 
So velvet soft and white it is; 

But March himself is not so strong, 
With all the great gales that are his. 

In vain his whistling storms lie calls, 
In vain the cohorts of his power 

Bide down the sky on mighty 
blasts — 
He cannot crush the little flower. 

Its white spear parts the sod, the 
snows 
Than that white spear less snowy 
are. 



The rains roll off its crest like spray, 
It lifts again its spotless star. 

Blow, blow, dark March! To meet 
you here, 
Thrust upward from the central 
gloom. 
The stellar force of the old earth 
Pulses to life in this slight bloom. 



MY OWK SOXG. 

Oh, glad am I that I was born ! 
For who is sad when flaming morn 
Bursts forth, or when the mighty 

night 
Carries the soul from height 

height ! 



to 



To me, as to the child that sings. 
The bird that claps his rain-washed 

Avings, I flower. 

The breeze that curls the sun-tipped 
Comes some new joy with each new 

hour. 

•Joy in the beauty of the earth, 
Joy in the fire upon tlie hearth, 
Joy in that iDoteucy of love 
In which I live and breathe and move ! 

Joy even in the shapeless thought 
That, some day, when all tasks are 

wrought, 
I shall explore that vasty deep 
Beyond the frozen gates of sleep. 

For joy a'ttunes all beating things, 
With me each rhythmic atom sings. 
From glow till gloom, from mirk till 

morn ; 
Oh, glad am I that I was born ! 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 

What love do I bring you? The 

earth. 
Full of love, were far lighter; 
The great hollow sky. full of love, 

Something slighter. 

Earth full and heaven full were less 

Than the full measure given ; 
Nay, say a heart full, — the heart 
Holds earth and heaven ! 




532 



SPRAGUE. 



Charles Sprague. 



ODE ON ART. 

When, from the sacred garden driven, 
Man fled before his Maker's wrath, 
An angel left her place in heaven. 
And crossed the wanderer's snnless 
path, 
' Twas Ai't ! sweet Art ! new radiance 
broke 
Where her light foot flew o'er the 
ground. 
And thus, with seraph voice she 
spoke — 
" The Curse a blessing shall be 
found." 

,She led him through the trackless 
wild. 
Where noontide svmbeam never 
blazed ; 
The thistle shrunk, the harvest 
smiled ; 
And Nature gladdened as she gazed. 
Earth's thousand tribes of living 
things, 
At Art's command, to him are 
given ; 
The village grows, the city springs. 
And point their spires of faith to 
heaven. 

He rends the oak — and bids it ride, 
To guard the shores its beauty 
graced ; 
He sniites the rock — upheaved in 
Ijride, 
See towers of strength, and domes 
of taste. 
Earth's teeming caves their wealth 
reveal. 
Fire bears his banner on the wave. 
He bids the mortal poison heal. 
And leaps triumphant o'er the 
grave. 

He plucks the pearls that stud the 
deep, 
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill; 
He breaks the stubborn marble's 
sleep. 
And mocks his own Creator's skill. 



With thoughts that swell his glowing 
soul. 
He bids the ore illume the page, 
And, proudly scorning Time's con- 
trol. 
Commerces with an unborn age. 

In fields of air he Avrites his name. 
And treads the chambers of the 
sky; 
He reads the stars, and grasps the 
flame 
That quivers round the Throne on 
high. 
In war renowned, in peace sublime. 

He moves in greatness and in grace ; 
His power, subduing space and time, 
Links realm to realm and race to 
race. 



THE WINGED WORSHIPPEnS. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
What seek ye from the fields of 

heaven ? 
Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here. 
Where mortals to their Maker bend '? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend '? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to 

weep. 
Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you, 'tis given 
To wake sweet Nature's untaught 
lays; 
Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with 
hands. 



S PRAGUE. 



53^ 



Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach nie the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 

Ahove the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere Heaven indeed 

Through fields of trackless light to 

soar. 

On Nature's charms to feed, 

And Nature's own great God adore. 



THE FAMILY MEETING. 

We are all here ! 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother. 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled — we're all at 

home ; 
To-night let no cold stranger come; 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle Peace assert her power, 
And kind Affection rule the hour; 

We're all — all here. 

We're not all here! 
Some are away — the dead ones dear, 
Who thronged with us this ancient 

hearth, 
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
Looked in and thinned our little band ; 
Some like a night-flash passed away. 
And some sank, lingering, day by day; 
The quiet graveyard — some lie 

there — 
And cruel Ocean has his share — 
AVe're not all here. 

We are all here! 
Even they — the dead — though dead, 

so dear. 
Fond Memory, to her duty true. 
Brings back their faded forms to 



How life-like, through the mist of 
years, 

Each well-remembered face appears ! 

We see them as in times long past; 

From each to each kind looks are 
cast; 

We hear their Avords, their smiles be- 
hold. 

They're round us as they were of 
old — 
We are all here. 

We are all here ! 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon must we join the gathered dead ; 
And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, 
Which yields a life of peace below! 
So, in the world to follow this, 
May each repeat, in words of bliss, 

We're all — all here ! 



TO MY CIGAR. 

Yes, social friend, I love thee well, 

In learned doctors' spite; 
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel. 

And lap me in delight. 

By thee, they cry, with phizzes long, 
My years are sooner passed ; 

Well, take my answer, right or wrong. 
They're sweeter while they last. 

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art, 

A monitor, though still; 
Thou speak' st a lesson to my heart 

Beyond the preacher's skill. 

Thou'rt like the man of w^orth, who 
gives 

To goodness every day, 
The odor of whose virtue lives 

When he has passed away. 

When, in the lonely evening hoiu", 

Attended but by thee, 
O'er history's varied page I pore, 

Man's fate in thine I see. 



534 



SP HAGUE. 



Oft as thy snowy column grows, 
Then hreaks and fahs away, 

I trace how mighty realms thus rose, 
Thus tumbled to decay. 

Awhile like thee the hero burns, 
And smokes and fumes around. 

And then, like thee, to ashes turns. 
And mingles with the ground. 

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled. 
And time's the wasting breath. 

That late or early, we behold. 
Gives all to dusty death. 

From beggar's frieze to monarch's 
robe, 
One common doom is passed ; 
Sweet Nature's works, the swelling 
globe. 
Must all burn out at last. 

And what is he who smokes thee 
now ? — 

A little moving heap. 
That soon like thee to fate must bow. 

With thee in dust must sleep. 

But though thy ashes downward go. 
Thy essence rolls on high; 

Thus, when my body must lie low. 
My soul shall cleave the sky. 



FROM THE -'ODE ON SHAKESPEARE:' 

Who now shall grace the glow- 
ing throne. 
Where, all unrivalled, all alone. 
Bold Shakespeare sat, and looked 

creation through. 
The minstrel monarch of the 
worlds he drew? 

That throne is cold — that lyre in 
death unstrung 

On M'hose prouil note delighted Won- 
der hung. 

Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he 
sweeps. 

One spot shall spare — the grave where 
Shakespeare sleeps. 

Rulers and ruled in common gloom 
may lie. 

But Nature's laureate bards shall 
never die. 



Art's chiselled boast and Glory's tro- 

phied shore 
Must live in numbers, or can live no 

more. 
While sculptured Jove some nameless 

waste may claim, [fame; 

Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's 
Troy's doubtful walls in ashes passed 

away. 
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's 

deathless lay; 
Rome, slowly sinking in her crum- 
bling fanes. 
Stands all immortal in her Maro's 

strains ; 
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, 
On whose broad sway the sun forever 

smiles. 
To Time's unsparing I'age one day 

must bend, 
And all her triumphs in her Shake- 
speare end ! 

O thou ! to whose creative power 
We dedicate the festal hour. 
While Grace and Goodness round 

the altar stand, 
Learning's anointed train, and Beau- 
ty's rose-lipped band — 
Realms yet unborn, in accents now 

unknown, 
Thy song shall learn, and bless it for 

their own. [roves. 

Deep in the West as Independence 
His banners planting round the land 

he loves. 
Where Nature sleeps in Eden's in- 
fant grace, 
In Time's full hour shall spring a 

glorious race. 
Thy name, thy verse, thy language, 

shall they bear. 
And deck for thee the vaulted temple 

there. 
Our Roman-hearted fathers broke 
Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; 
But thou, harmonious master of the 

mind. 
Around their sons a gentler chain 

Shalt bind; 
Once more in thee shall Albion's 

sceptre wave. 
And what her monarch lost, her 

iuonarch-bard shall save. 



STEDMAN. 



535 



Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



THE TEST. 

Seven women loved bim. When 
the wrinkled pall 
Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled 
desire 

(Death, pale, triumphant rival, con- 
quering all,) 

They came, for that last look, around 

his pyre. 
One strewed white roses, on Miiose 

leaves were hung 
Her tears, like dew; and in discreet 

attire 

Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next 

among 
The group, a fair-haired virgin 

moved serenely. 
Whose saintly heart no vain repin- 

ings wrung, 

Keached the calm dust, and there, 
composed and queenly. 
Gazed, but the missal trembled in 
her hand : 

*' That's with the past," she said, 
"nor may I meanly 

Give way to tears!" and passed into 
the land. 
The third hung feebly on the por- 
tals moaning, 

With whitened lips, and feet that 
stood in sand, 

So weak they seemed, — and all her 

passion owning. 
The fourth, a ripe, luxurious 

maiden, came, 
Half for such homage to the dead 

atoning 

By smiles on one who fanned a later 

flame 
In her slight soul, her fickle steps 

attended. 
The fifth and sixth were sisters; at 

the same 



Wild moment both above the image 

bended, 
And with immortal hatred each on 

each. 
Glared, and therewith her exultation 

blended. 

To know the dead had 'scaped the 

other's reach! 
Meanwhile, through all the words 

of anguish spoken, 
One lowly form had given no sound 

of speech, 

Through all the signs of woe, no sign 

nor token : 
But when they came to bear him 

to his rest. 
They found her beauty paled, — her 

heart was broken : 

And in the Silent Land his shade 

contest 
That she, of all the seven, loved him 

best. 



LAURA, MY nAULING. 

Laura, my darling, the roses have 

bhished 
At the kiss of the dew, and our 

chamber is hushed ; 
Our murmuring babe to your bosom 

has clung. 
And hears in his slumber the song 

that you sung; 
I watch you asleep with your amis 

round him thrown, 
Your links of dark tresses wound in 

with his own, 
And the wife is as dear as the gentle 

young bride 
Of the hour when you first, darling, 

came to my side. 

Laura, my darling, our sail down the 

stream 
Of Youth's summers and winters 

has been like a dream; 



536 



STEDMAN. 



Years have btit rounded your wom- 
anly grace. 

And added their spell to the light of 
your face ; 

Your soul is the same as though jiart 
were not given 

To the two, like yourself, sent to bless 
me from heaven, — 

Dear lives, springing forth from the 
life of my life, 

To make you more near, darling, 
mother, and wife ! 

Laiu-a, my darling, there's hazel-eyed 

Fred, 
Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed, 
And little King Arthur, whose curls 

have the art 
Of winding their tendrils so close 

round my heart; 
Yet fairer tlian either, and dearer 

than both. 
Is the true one who gave me in girl- 
hood her troth : 
For we, when we mated for evil and 

good, — 
What were we, darling, btit babes in 

the wood ? 

Laura, my darling, the years which 

have flown 
Brought few of the prizes I pledged 

to my own. 
I said that no sorrow should roughen 

her way. 
Her life should be cloudless, a long 

summer's day. 
Shadow and stmshine, thistles and 

flowers, 
Which of the two, darling, most have 

been ours ? 
Yet to-night, by the smile on your 

lips, I can see 
You are dreaming of me, darling, 

dreaming of me. 

Laura, my darling, the stars that we 
knew 

In our youth, are still shining as ten- 
der and true; 

The midnight is sounding its slum- 
berous bell. 

And I come to the one who has loved 
me so well, 



Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is 

done : 
What shall dissever our lives which 

are one ? 
Say, while the rose listens under her 

breath, 
'• Xaught until death, darling, naught 

imtil death!" 



THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 

Could we but know 

The laud that ends our dark, un- 
certain travel. 
Where lie those happier hills and 
meadows low, — 
Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost 
cavil. 
Aught of that country could we 
siu'ely know. 

Who would not go ? 

Might we but hear 
The hovering angels' high imagined 
chorus, 
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful 
eyes and clear. 
One radiant vista of the realm before 
us, — 
With one rapt moment given to see 
and hear. 

Ah, who would fear? 

Were we quite sure 
To find the peerless friend who left 
us lonely, 
Or there, by some celestial stream 
as pure. 
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit 
only — 
This weary mortal coil, were we 
quite sure, 

Who would endure '? 



THE TRYST. 

Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast 

mine, 
In some ambrosial lover's shrine. 
My lips against thy lips were pressed. 
And all our passion was confessed ; 
So near and dear my darling seemed, 
I knew not that I only dreamed. 



STEDMAN. 



Waking this mid and moonlit night, 
I clasp thee close by lover's right. 
Thou fearest not my -warm embrace. 
And yet, so like the dream thy face 
And kisses. I but half i^artake 
The joy, and know not if I wake. 



TOO LATE. 

Crouch no more by the ivied walls, 
AVeep no longer over her grave. 
Strew no flowers when evening falls ; 
Idly you lost what angels gave ! 

.Sunbeams cover that silent mound 
With a warmer hue than your roses 

red; 
To-morrow's rain will bedew the 

ground 
With aT purer stream than the tears 

you shed. 

But neither the sweets of the scat- 
tered flowers, 

Nor the morning sunlight's soft com- 
mand, 

Nor all the songs of the summer 
showers, 

Can charm her back from tliat dis- 
tant land. 

Tenderest vows are ever too late ! 
She, who has gone, can only know 
The cruel sorrow that was her fate, 
And the words that were a mortal 
woe. 

Earth to earth, and a vain despair; 
For the gentle spirit has flown away. 
And you can never her wrongs repair. 
Till ye meet again at the Judgment 
Day. 



THE DOORSTEP. 

The conference-meeting through at 
last. 
We boys around the vestry waited 
To see the girls come tripping past 
Like snow-birds willing to be 
mated. 



Not braver he that leaps the wall 
By level musket-flashes litten. 

Than I, who stepped before them all 
Who longed to see me get the 
mitten. 

But no, she blushed and took my 
arm ! 
We let the old folks have the high- 
way. 
And started toward the Maple Farm 
Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 
'Twas nothing worth a song or 
story ; 
Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed apd in a 
glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
The moon was full, the fields were 
gleaming : 
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 
Her face witli youth and health 
were beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff, — 
O sculptor, if you could but mould 
. it! — 

So liglitly touched my iacket-cuff, 
To" keep it warm I liad to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone, — 
'Twas love and fear and triumph 
blended. 
At last we reached the foot-worn 
■ stone 
Where thatdelicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home; 
Her dimpled hand the latches fin- 
gered. 
We heard the voices nearer come. 
Yet on the doorstep still we lin- 
gered. 

She shook her ringlets from her head. 
And with a "Thank you, Ned," 
dissembled. 
But yet I knew she imderstood 
With what a daring wish I trem- 
bled. 



538 



STEDMAN. 



A cloud passed kindly overhead, 
The moon was slyly peeping 
through it, 
Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

"Come, now or never! do it! do 
it!'' 

My lips till tlien had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister, 

But somehow, full upon her own 
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I 
kissed her! 

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 

O listless Avoman, weary lover! 
To feel once more that fresh, wild 
thrill 
I'd give — but who can live youth 
over ? 



THE DISCO VEUER. 

I HAVE a little kinsman 

Whose earthly summers are but 

three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all their peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer. 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges 

roll. 
Ay, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly, in his fair young hour. 
Came one who bore a flower, 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command: 
" Henceforth thou art a rover! 
Thou must make a voyage far. 
Sail beneath the evening star. 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answer well 



W^hat the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward bound; 
Would that he might return! 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways jjart. 
Hush! does not the baby this way 
bring. 
To lay beside this severed curl. 

Some starry offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl ? 

Ah, no! not so! 
We may follow on his track, 
But he comes not back. 
And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know, 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thou- 
sand years. 
More tlian in the groves is taught, 
Or from furthest Indies brought; 
He knows, perchance, how spirits 

fare, — 
What shapes the angels wear, 
AVliat is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond om* reach — 
And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to 
mortal hearers told. 



SEEKING THE MAYELOIVER. 

The sweetest sound our whole year 
round — 

'Tis the first robin of the spring! 
The song of the full orchard choir 

Is not so fine a thing. 

Glad sights are common: Nature 
draws [year. 

Her random pictures through the 
But oft her music bids us long 

Remember those most dear. 

To me, when in the sudden spring 
I hear the earliest robin's lay. 

With the first trill there comes again 
One picture of the May. 

The veil is parted wide, and lo, 
A moment, though jny eyelids 
close, 



S TED MAN. 



539 



Once more I see that wooded hill 
Where the arbutus grows. 

I see the village dryad kneel, 
Trailing her slender fingers through 

The knotted tendrils, as she lifts 
Their pink, pale llowers to view. 

Once more I dare to stoop beside 
The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, 

And long to touch her careless hair, 
And think how dear her voice. 

My eager, wandering hands assist 
With fragrant blooms her lap to fill. 

And half by chance they meet her 
own. 
Half by our young hearts' will. 

Till, at the last, those blossoms won, — 
Like her, so pure, so sweet, so 
shy,— 

Upon the gray and lichened rocks 
Close at her feet I lie. 

Fresh blows the breeze through hem- 
lock-trees, 
The fields are edged with green 
below; [love 

And naught but youth and hope and 
We know or care to know ! 

Hark! from the moss-clung apple- 
bough, [broke 

Beyond the tumbled wall, there 
That gurgling music of the May, — 

'Twas the first robin spoke! 

I heard it, ay, and heard it not, — 
For little then my glad heart wist 

What toil and time should come to 
pass. 
And what delight be missed ; 

Nor thought thereafter, year by year. 
Hearing that fresh yet olden song. 

To yearn for luiretuming joys 
That with its joy l)elong. 



ALL IX A LIFETIME. 

Tiiou Shalt have sun and shower 

from heaven above, 
Tliou shalt have flower and thorn 

from earth below, 



Thine shall be foe to hate and friend 
to love, 
Pleasures that others gain, the ills 
they know, — 

And all in a lifetime. 

Hast thou a golden day. a starlit 
night. 
Mirth, and music, and love without 
alloy ? 
Leave no drop undrunken of thy 
delight : 
Sorrow and shadow follow on thy 
joy. 

'Tis all in a lifetime. 

What if the battle end and thou hast 
lost? 
Others have lost the battles thou 
hast Avon : 
Haste thee, bind thy wounds, nor 
count the cost; 
Over the field will rise to-mor- 
row's sun. 

"Tis all in a lifetime. 

Laugh at the braggart sneer, the 
open scorn, — 
'Ware of the secret stab, the slan- 
derous lie : 
For seventy years of turmoil tliou 
wast born. 
Bitter and sweet are thine till these 
go by. 

'Tis all in a lifetime. 

Reckon thy voyage well, and spread 
the sail, — 
Wind and calm and current shall 
wari^ thy way ; 
Compass shall set thee false, and 
chart shall fail ; 
Ever the waves shall use thee for 
their play. 

'Tis all in a lifetime. 

Thousands of years agone were 
chance and change. 
Thousands of ages hence the same 
shall be; 
Xaught of thy joy and grief is new or 
strange : 
Gather apace the good that falls 
to thee ! 

'Tis all in a lifetime! 



Richard Henry Stoddard. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 

There are gains for all our losses, 
There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts. 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign: 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain: 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 
But it never comes again. 



^.V OLD SONG REVERSED. 

" There are gains for all our losses." 

So I said when I was young. 
If I sang that song again, 
'Twould not be Avith that refrain. 
Which but suits an idle tongue. 

Youth has gone, and hope gone with 
it. 

Gone the strong desire for fame. 
Laurels are not for the old. 
Take them, lads. Give Senex gold. 

What's an everlasting name ? 

When my life was in its summer 

One fair woman liked my looks: 
Now that Time has driven his plough 
In deep farrows on my brow, 
I'm no more in her good books. 

" There are gains for all our losses?" 

Gi'ave beside the wintry sea. 
Where my child is, and my heart. 
For they would not live apart, 
What has been your gain to me ? 

No, the words I sang were idle, 

And will ever so i-emain : 
Death, and age, and vanished youth, 
All declare this bitter truth, 

" There's a loss for every gain!" 



AT LAST. 

When first the bride and bridegroom 
wed. 
They love their single selves the 
best; 
A sword is in the marriage-bed. 
Their separate slumbers are not 
rest ; 
They quarrel, and make up again. 
They give and suffer worlds of pain. 
Both right and wrong. 
They struggle long. [old, 

Till some good day, when they are 
Some dark day, when the bells are 

tolled. 

Death having taken their best of life, 

They lose themselves, and find each 

other; [wife, 

They know that they are husband. 

For, weeping, they are father, 

mother ! 



THE TWO BRIDES. 

I SAW two maids at the kirk. 
And botli were fair and sweet: 

One in her wedding-robe. 
And one in her winding-sheet. 

The choristers sang the hymn. 
The sacred rites were read. 

And one for life to life. 
And one to death was wed. 

They were borne to their bridal-beds, 

In loveliness and bloom ; 
One in a merry castle. 

And one in a solemn tomb. 

One on the morrow woke 
In a workl of sin and pain ; 

But the otlier was happier far, 
And never awoke aerain. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

This man Avhose homely face you 

look upon. 
Was one of nature's masterful, great 

men; 



STODDARD. 



Born with strong arms, that unf ought 

battles won; 
Direct of speech, and cunning witli 

the pen. 
Chosen for large designs, he had the 

art 
Of winning with his humor, and he 

went 
Straight to his mark, which was the 

human heart ; 
Wise, too, for what he could not 

break he bent. 
Upon his back a more than Atlas- 
load, 
The burden of the Commonwealth, 

was laid; 
He stooped, and rose up to it, though 

the road 
Shot suddenly downwards, not a 

whit dismayed. 
Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! 

AH now give jilace 
To this dear benefactor of the 

race. 



HOWAHE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED. 

How are songs begot and bred ? 
How do golden measures flow ? 
From the heart, or from the head, 
Happy poet, let me know. 

Tell me first how folded flowers 
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers ; 
How the south wind shapes its tune. 
The harper, he, of June. 

None may answer, none may know, 
Winds and flowers come and go, 
And the selfsame ca)ions bind 
Nature and the poet's mind. 



RATTLE THE WINDO]V. 

Rattle the window, winds. 

Rain, drip on the panes; 
There are tears and sighs in our 
hearts and eyes. 

And a weary weight on our brains. 

The gray sea heaves and heaves, 
On the dreary flats of sand; 



And the blasted limb of the church- 
yard yew,— 
It shakes like a ghostly hand. 

The dead are engulfed beneath it, 
Sunk in the grassy waves : 

But we have more dead in our hearts 
to-day 
Than earth in all her graves ! 



SONGS UNSUNG. 

Let no poet, great or small. 
Say tliat he will sing a song; 

For song coraeth, if at all. 
Not because we woo it long, 

But because it suits its will. 

Tired at last of being still. 

Every song that has been sung 
Was before it took a voice. 

Waiting since the world was young 
For the poet of its choice. 

Oh, if any waiting be. 

May they come to-day to me ! 

I am ready to repeat 

Whatsoever they impart ; 
Sorrows sent by them are sweet, 

They know how to heal the heart : 
Ay, and in the lightest strain 
Something serious doth remain. 

What are my white hairs, forsooth. 
And the wrinkles on my brow ? 

I have still the soul of youth, 
Try me, merry Pluses, now. 

I can still with numbers fleet 

Fill the world with dancing feet. 

No, I am no longer young. 
Old am I this many a year; 

But my songs will yet be sung. 
Though I shall not live to hear. 

O my son that is to be. 

Sing my songs, and think of me! 



WHEN THE DRUM OF SICKNESS 
BEATS. 

When the drum of sickness beats 
The change o' the watch, and we 
are old. 

Farewell, youth, and all its sweets. 
Fires gone out that leave us cold! 



542 



STODDARD. 



Hairs are white that once were black, 
Each of fate the message saith ; 

And the bending of the back 
Salutation is to death. 



PAIN AND PLEASURE. 

Pain and pleasure both decay, 
Wealth and poverty depart; 

Wisdom makes a longer stay. 

Therefore, be thou wise, my heart. 

Land remains not, nor do they 
Who the lands to-day control. 

Kings and princes pass away, 

Therefore, be thou fixed, my soul. 

If by hatred, love, or pride 

Thou art shaken, thou art wrong; 

Only one thing will abide. 
Only goodness can be strong. 



OUT OF THE DEEPS OF HEAVEN. 

Out of the deeps of heaven 
A bird has flown to my door, 

As twice in the ripening summers 
Its mates have flown before. 

Why it has flown to my dwelling 

Nor it nor I may know; 
And only the silent angels 

Can tell when it shall go. 

That it will not straightway vanish. 

But fold its wings with me. 
And sing in the greenest branches 

Till the axe is laid to the tree, 

Is the prayer of my love and terror ; 

For my soul is sore distrest. 
Lest I wake some dreadful morning. 

And find but its empty nest ! 



WE SAT BY THE CHEERLESS 
FIRESIDE. 

We sat by the cheerless fireside, 
Mother, and you, and I ; 

All thinking of oiu- darling, 
And sad enough to die. 



He lay in his little coffin. 
In the room adjoining ours, 

A Christmas wreath on his bosom, 
His brow in a band of flowers. 

" We bury the boy to-morrow," 

I said, or seemed to say ; 
" Woidd I could keep it from coming 

By lengthening out to-day! 

"Why can't I sit by the fireside. 

As I am sitting now. 
And feel my gray hairs thinning. 

And the wrinkles on my brow ? 

" God keep him there in his coffin 
Till the years have rolled away! 

If he must be buiied to-morrow, 
Oh, let me die to-dav!" 



THE HEALTH. 

You may drink to your leman in 
gold. 

In a great golden goblet of wine; 
She's as ripe as the wine, and as bold 
As the glare of the gold : 

But this little lady of mine, 

1 will not profane her in wine. 
I go where the garden so still is, 

(The moon raining through,) 
To pluck the white bowls of 
lilies. 

And drink her in dew! 



the 



SILENT SONGS. 

If I could ever sing the songs 
Within me day and night. 

The only fit accompaniment 
Would be a lute of light. 

A thousand dreamy melodies, 

Begot with pleasant pain, 
Like "incantations float around 

The chambers of my brain. 

But when I strive to utter one. 

It mocks my feeble art. 
And leaves me silent, with the thorns 

Of music in my heart ! 



William Wetmore Story. 



THE VIOLET. 

O FAINT, delicious, spring-time vio- 
let, 
Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards 
to let 
A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my 
brow 
Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more 
sweet and low. 
And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved 
place. 
And that beloveil hoiu". 
When life hung ripening in love's 
golden grace. 
Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its 
reedy grass; 
The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky. — Oh, pass, ye 



visions, pass 



I wouUl that I were dead ! 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden 
door 
From which I ever flee ? 
O vanished Joy ! O Love, that art no 
more. 
Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet ! thy odor through my brain 
Hath searched, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did 
stain 
Thv velvet leaf. 



THE UKEXPRESSKD. 

Strive not to say the whole! the 

poet in his art, 
Must intimate the Avhole, and say tlie 

smallest part. 



The young moon's silver arc, her per- 
fect circle tells. 

The limitless, within Art's bounded 
outline dwells. 

Of every noble work, the silent part 

is best; 
Of all expression, that which cannot 

be expressed. 

Each act contains the life, each work 

of art, the world. 
And all the planet-laws are in each 

dewdrop pearled. 



WETMOUE COTTAGE, N AH ANT. 

The hours on the old piazza 

That overhangs the sea. 
With a tender and pensive music 

At times steal over me ; 
And again, o'er the balcony lean- 
ing, 

We list to the surf on the beach, 
That fills with its solemn warning 

The intervals of speech. 

We three sit at night in the moon- 
light. 

As we sat in the summer gone, 
And we talk of art and nature 

And sing as we sit alone ; 
We sing the old songs of Sorrento, 

Where oranges hang o' er the sea. 
And our hearts are tender with 
dreaming 

Of days that no more shall be. 

How gaily the hours went with us 
In those old days that are gone ! 

Ah ! would we Avere all together. 
Where now I am standing alone. 

Could life be again so perfect "? 
Ah, never! these years so drain 

The heart of its freshness of feel- 



But I lont 
vain. 



though the longing be 



544 



8T0WE. 



Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



LIFE'S MYSTERY. 

Life's mystery, — deep, restless as 
the ocean, — 
Hath surged and wailed for ages to 
and tro; 

Earth's generations watch its cease- 
less motion 
As in and out its hollow moanings 
flow ; 

.Shivering and yearning by that mi- 
known sea, 

Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in 
thee ! 

Life's sorrows, with inexorable pow- 
er. 
Sweep desolation o'er this mortal 
plain; 

And human loves and hopes fly as 
the chaff 
Borne by the whirlwind from the 
ripened grain : — 

Ah, when before that blast my hopes 
all flee, 

Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in 
thee! 

Between the mysteries of death and 

life 
Thou standest, loving, guiding, — 

not explaining; 
We aslv, and thou art silent, — yet we 

gaze. 
And our charmed hearts forget 

their drear complaining! 
No crushing fate, — no stony destiny I 
Thou Lamb that hast been slain, we 

rest in thee! 

The many waves of thought, the 
miglity tides, 
The ground-swell that rolls up from 
other lands. 

From far-off worlds, from dim eter- 
nal shores 
Whose echo dashes on life's wave- 
worn strands, — 

This vague, dark tumult of the inner 
sea 



Grows calm, grows bright, O, risen 
Lord, in thee! 

Thy pierced hand guides the myste- 
rious wheels ; 
Thy thorn-crowned brow now 
wears the crown of power; 

And when the dark enigma presseth 
sore 
Thy patient voice saith, "Watch 
with me one hour ! ' ' 

As sinks the moaning river in the 
sea 

In silver peace, — so sinks my soul in 
Thee! 



THE OTHER WORLD. 

It lies around us like a cloud. — 

A world we do not see ; 
Yet the sweet closing of an eye 

May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; 

Amid our worldly cares 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and 
beat, 

Sweet helping hands are stirred, 
And palpitates the veil between 

With breathings almost heard. 

The silence, — awful, sweet, and 
calm. 

They have no power to break ; 
For mortal words are not for them 

To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide. 
So near to press they seem, — 

They seem to lull us to our rest, 
And melt into our dream. 

And in the hush of rest they bring, 

'Tis easy now to see 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be. 



STREET. 



545 



To close the eye, and close the ear, 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 

And gently dream in loving arms. 
To swoon to that, — from tliis. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
Scarce asking where we are, 

To feel all evil sink away. 
All sorrow and all care. 



Sweet souls around us! watch us still, 

Press nearer to our side, 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 

With gentle helpings glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 
A dried and vanished stream ; 

Your joy be the reality, 
Our suffering life, the dream. 



Alfred Billings Street. 



[From Frontenac] 
QUEBEC AT SUXIHSE. 

The fresh May morning's earliest 

light. 
From ^A'here the richest hues were 

blended. 
Lit on Cape Diamond's towering 

height 
Whose spangled ciystals glittered 

bright, 
Thence to the castle roof descended. 
And bathed in radiance pure and 

deep [steep. 

The spires and dwellings of the 
Still downward crept the strengthen- 
ing rays ; 
The lofty crowded roofs below 
And t'ataraqui caught the glow. 
Till tiie whole scene was in a blaze. 
The scattered bastions, — walls of 

stone 
With bristling lines of cannon 

croMued, 
Whose nuizzles o'er the landscape 

frowned 
Blackly through their embrasures 

— shone. 
Point Levi's woods sent many a 

wreath 
Of mist, as though hearths smoked 

beneath. 
Whilst heavy folds of vapor gray 
Upon St. Charles, still brooding, lay; 
The basin glowed in splendid dyes 
Glassing the glories of the skies. 
And chequered tints of light and 

shade 
The banks of Orleans' Isle displayed. 



[From Frontcnac] 
QUEBEC AT SUXSET. 

'TwAS in June's bright and glowing 

prime 
The loveliest of the summer time. 
The laurels were one splendid sheet 
Of crowded blossom everywhere : 
The locust's clustered pearl was 

sweet, [air 

And the tall whitewood made the 
Delicious with the fragrance shed 
From the gold flowers all o"er it 

spread. 

In the rich pomp of dying day 

Quebec, the rock-throned monarch, 
glowed. 
Castle and spire and dwelling gray 
Tlie batteries rude that niched their 

■way 
Along the cliff, beneath the play 
Of the deep yellow light, were gay. 
And the curved flood, below that lay, 

In flashing glory flowed; 
Beyond, the sweet and mellow smile 
Beamed upon Orleans' lovely isle; 

Until the downward view 
Was closed by mountain-tops that, 

reared 
Against the burnished sky, ajipeared 

In misty dreamy hue. 

West of Quebec's embankments rose 
The forests in their wild repose. 
Between the trunks, the radiance 
slim 
Here came with slant and quiver- 
ing blaze; 



Whilst there, in leaf-wreatlied arbors 
dim, 
Was gathering gray the twiliglit's 
haze. 
Wliere cut tlie bouglis the back- 
ground glow 
That striped the west, a glittering 
belt. 
The leaves transparent seemed, as 
though 
In the rich radiance they would 
melt. 

Upon a narrow grassy glade, 

Wliere thickets stood in grouping 

shade, 
The light streaked down in golden 

mist, 
Kindled the shrubs, the greensward 

kissed. 
Until the ciover-blossoms white 
Flashed out lilie spangles large and 

bright. 

This green and sun-streaked glade 

Mas rife 
With sights and sounds of forest life. 
A robin in a bush was singing, 

A flicker rattled on a tree ; 
In liquid life-like tones round ringing 

A tlu-asher piped its melody ; 
Crouching and leaping with pointed 
ear 
From tliicket to thicket a rabl^it 
sped. 
And on the short delicate grass a 
deer 
Lashing the insects from off him, 
fetf. 



[From Froiitenac] 
THE CANADIAN SPUING. 

'TwAS May! the spring with magic 

bloom 
Leaped up from wint<^}'s frozen 

tomb. 
Day lit the river's icy mail: 

The bland warm rain at evening 

sank; 
I"e fragments dashed in midnight's 

gale; 



The moose at morn the rii)ples 
drank. 
The yacht, that stood with naked 
mast 
In the locked shallows motionless 
AVhen sunset fell, went curtseying 
past 
As breathed the morning's liglit 
caress. 
The woodman, in the forest deep. 
At sunrise heard witli gladdening 
thrill, 
Where yester-eve was gloomy sleep. 

The brown rossignol's carol shrill; 
Where yester-eve the snowbank 
spread 
The hemlock's twisted roots be- 
tween. 
He saw the coltsfoot's golden head 
Rising from mosses plump and 
green ; 
Whilstall aromid were budding trees. 
And mellow sweetness tilled the 

breeze, 
A few days passed along, and brought 
More changes as by magic wrought. 
AVith plumes were tipped thebeechen 
sprays ; 
The birch, long dangling tassels 
showed ; 
The oak still bare, but in a blaze 

Of gorgeous red the maple glowed; 
With clusters of the purest white 
Cherry and shadbush charmed the 
sight 
Like spots of snow tlie boughs 
among; 
And showers of strawberi-y blossoms 

made 
Rich cai-pets in each field and glade 
Wliere day its kindliest glances 
flung. 
And air, too, hailed spring's joyous 
sway ; 
The bluebird warbled clear and 
sweet ; 
Then came the wren with carols gay, 
The customed roof and porcli to 
greet ; 
The mockbird showed its varied skill ; 
At evening moaned tlie whippoor- 

will. 
Type of the spring fi-om winter's 
gloom! 



The butterfly new being found ; 
Whilst round the pink may-apple's 
bloom. 
Gave myriad drinking bees their 
sound. 
Great fleeting clouds the pigeons 

made ; 
When near her brood the hunter 
strayed 
AVlth trailing limp the partridge 
stirred ; 
Whilst a quick, feathered spangle 

shot 
Rapid as thought from spot to sjiot 
yiiowing the fairv humming-bird. 



[From Frontenac] 
CAYUGA LAKE. 

SwKET sylvan lake! in jnemory's 

gold 
Is set the time, when first my eye 
From thy green shore beheld thee 

hold 
Thy mirror to the sunset sky ! 
No ripple brushed its delicate air, 
Rich silken tints alone were there; 
The far opposing shore displayed, 
Mingling its hues, a tender shade; 
A sail scarce seeming to the sight 
To move, spread there its pinion 

white. 
Like some pure spirit stealing on 
Down from its realm, by beauty won. 
Oh, who could view the scene nor 

feel 
Its gentle peace within him steal. 
Nor in his inmost bosom bless 
lis pure and radiant loveliness ? 
]\Iy heart bent down its willing knee 
Before the glorious Deity ; 
Beauty led up my heart to llim. 
Beauty, though cold, and poor, and 

dim 
Before His radiance, beauty still 
Tliat made my bosom deeply thrill ; 
To higher life my being wrought, 
And purified my every thought, 
('rept like soft music througli my 

mind. 
Each feeling of my soul refined. 
And lifted me that lovely even 
One precious moment up to heaven. 



Then, contrast wild, I saw the cloud 

The next day rear its sable crest. 
And heard with awe the thunder 
loud 
Come crashing o'er thy blackening 
breast. 
Down swooped the eagle of the blast. 
One mass of foam was tossing high. 
Whilst the red lightnings, fierce and 
fast. 
Shot from the wild and scowling 
sky, 
And bvu'st in dark and mighty train 
A tumbling cataract, tlie i-ain. 
I saw within the driving mist 
Dim writhing stooping shapes, — 
the trees 
That the last eve so softly kissed. 

And birds so filled with melodies. 
Still swept the wind with keener 
shriek, 
The tossing waters higher rolled, 
Still fiercer flashed the lightning's 
streak. 
Still gloomier frowned the tempest's 
iold. 

Ah, such, ah, such is life, I sighed. 

That lovely yester-eve and this ! 
Now it reflects the radiant pride 
Of youth and hope and promised 

bliss. 
Earth's future track an Eden seems 
Brighter than e'en our brightest 

dreams. 
Again, the tempest rushes o'er. 
The sky's blue smile is seen no more, 
The placid deep to foam is tossed. 
All trace of beauty, peace, is lost. 
Despair is hovering, dark and wild. 
Ah! what can save earth's stricken 

child •? 

Sweet sylvan lake! beside thee now. 
Villages point their spires to 
heaven, 

Hich meadows wave, broad grain- 
fields bow. 
The axe resounds, the plough is 
driven : 

Down verdant points come herds to 
drink. 

Flocks sti-ew, like spots of snow, thy 
blink; 



548 



STREET. 



The frequent farm-house meets the 

sight, 
Mid falHng harvests scythes are 

bright. 
The watch-dog's bark comes faint 

from far, 
Shakes on tlie ear tlie saw-mill's jar, 
The steamer like a darting bird 

Parts the rich emerald of thy wave, 
And the gay song and laugh are 

heard, 
But all is o'er the Indian's grave. 
Pause, white man! check thy onward 

stride ! 
Cease o'er the flood thy prow to 

guide ! 
Until is given one sigh sincere 
For those who once were monarchs 

here. 
And prayer is made beseeching God 
To spare us his avenging rod 
For all the wrongs upon the head 
Of the poor helpless savage shed ; 
Who, strong when we were weak, did 

not 
Trample us down upon the spot, 
But, weak when we were strong, was 

cast 
Like leaves upon the rushing blast. 

Sweet sylvan lake ! one single gem 

Is in thy liquid diadem. 

No sister has this little isle 

To give its beauty smile for smile; 

With it to hear the blue-bird sing; 

" W^ake, leaves, wake, flowers! here 

comes the spring! " 
With it to weave for sunmier's 

tread 
Mosses below and bowers o'erhead; 
With it to flash to gorgeous skies 
Tlie opal pomp of autumn skies; 
And when stern winter's tempests 

blow 
To shrink beneath his robes of snow. 

Sweet sylvan lake ! that isle of thine 
Is like one hope through grief to 

shine: 
Is like one tie our life to cheer; 
Is like one flower when all is sere; 
One ray amidst the tempest's might; 
One star amidst the gloom of night. 



A FOREST WALK. 

A LOVEi>Y sky, a cloudless sun, 
A wind that breathes of leaves and 
flowers. 
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have 
run 
To the cool forest's shadowy 
bowers ; 
One of the paths all round that wind, 
Traced by the browsing herds, I 
choose. 
And sights and sounds of humaii kind 

In Nature's lone recesses lose: 
The beech displays its marbled l*ark. 
The spruce its green tent stretches 
wide, 
AVhile scowls the hemlock grim and 
dark. 
The maple's scalloped dome beside. 
All weave on high a verdant roof 
That keeps the very sun aloof. 
Making a twilight soft and green* 
Within the columned, vaulted scene. 

Sweet forest-odors have their birth 
From the clothed boughs and teem- 
ing earth ; 
Where pine-cones dropi^ed, leaves 
piled and dead 
Long tufts of grass, and stars of 

fern, 
With many a wild flower's fairy 
inn, 
A thick, elastic carpet spread : 
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, 
Resolving into soil, is sunk; 
There, wrenched but lately from its 
throne 
By some fierce whirlwind circling 
past. 
Its huge roots massed with earth and 
stone. 
One of the woodland kings is cast. 

Above, the forest-tips are bi-iglit 
AVith the broad blaze of sunny light; 
But now a fitful air-gust parts 

The screening branches, and a glow 
Of dazzling, startling radiance darts 

Down tlie dark stems, and lireaks 
below : 
The mingled shadows off are rolled. 
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold; 



STREET. 



549 



Low sprouts and herbs, before un- 
seen 
Display their shades of brown and 

green : 
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, 
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss; 
The robin, brooding in her nest. 
Chirps as the quick ray strikes her 

breast ; 
And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
I see the rabbit upward bound, 
AVith pointed ears an instant look. 
Then scamper to the darkest nook, 
Where, with crouched limb and star- 
ing eye. 
He watches while I saunter by. 

A narrow vista, carpeted 

With rich green grass, invites my 

tread : 
Here showers the light in golden dots, 
There drops the shade in ebon spots, 
So blended that the very air 
Seems net-work as I enter there. 
The partridge, whose deep-rolling 

dnun 
Afar has sounded in my ear. 
Ceasing his beatings as I come, 
Whirs to the sheltering branches 

near ; 
The little milk-snake glides away. 
The brindled marmot dives from day; 
And now, between the boughs, a 

space 
Of the blue, laughing sky, I trace: 
On each side shrinks tlie bowery 

shade ; 
Before me spreads an emerald glade; 
The sunshine steeps its grass and 

moss ; 
That couch my footsteps as I cross; 
IMerrily hums the tawny bee, 
Tlie glitteiing humming-bird I see; 
Floats tlie bright butterfly along, 
The insect choir is loud in song; 
A spot of light and life, it seems, — 
A fairy haunt for Fancy's dreams. 

Here stretched, the pleasant turf I 

press 
In luxury of idleness ; 
Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and 

sky 
Spotted with cloud-shapes charm my 

eye : 



While murmuring grass and waving 

trees — 
Their leaf-harps sounding to the 

breeze — 
And water-tones that tinkle near, 
Blend their sweet music to my ear; 
And by the changing shades alone, 
The imssage of tlie hours is known. 



THE BLUE-BIRD'S SOXG. 

Hakk. that sweet carol! With de- 
light 
We leave the stifling room; 
The little bluebird meets our sight, — 
Spring, glorious spring, has come ! 
The south-wind's balm is in the 
air, [where 

The melting snow-wreaths every- 

Are leaping off in showers; 
And Nature, in her brightening looks, 
Tells that her flowers, and leaves, 
and brooks. 
And birds, will soon be ours. 



[From " The Xook in flu- Forest.'''] 
A PICTURE. 

The branches arch and shape a pleas- 
ant bower. 

Breaking white cloud, blue sky, and 
sunshine bright 

Into pure ivory and sapphire spots. 

And flecks of gold ; a soft, cool eme- 
rald tint 

Colors the air, as though the delicate 
leaves 

Emitted self-born light. What splen- 
did walls. 

And what a gorgeous roof, carved by 
the hand 

Of glorious Nature I Here the spruce 
thrusts in 

Its bristling plume, tipped with its 
pale-green points ; 

The hemlock shows its borders 
freshly fringed; 

The smoothly-scalloped beech-leaf 
and the birch. 

Cut into ragged edges, interlace: 

While here and there, through clefts, 
the laurel hangs 

Its gorgeous chalices half-brimmed 
with dew. 



550 



SUCKLING. 



As though to hoard it for the haunt- 
ing elves, 

The moonlight calls to this, their 
festal hall. [the earth 

A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes 

Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The 
fern displays 



Its fluted wreath, beaded beneath 

with drops 
Of richest brown; the wild-rose 

spreads its breast 
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging 

tir 
lias dropped its dark, long cone. 



Sir John Suckling. 



CONSTANCY. 

Out upon it ! I have loved 
Three whole days together; 

And am like to love thee more, 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings. 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again. 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on"t is, no praise 

Is due at all to me ; 
Love with me had made no stays. 

Except it had been she. 

Had it any been but she 

And that very face. 
There had been at least, ere this, 

A dozen in her place ! 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN. FOND 
LOVE II' 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move 
her. 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and nuite, young sinner? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win 
her. 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee, why so mute ! 



Quit, quit for shame, this will not 
move. 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her: 

The devil take her. 



/ PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY 
HEART. 

I PRITHEE send me back my heart. 
Since I can not have thine. 

For if from yours you will not part. 
Why then should'st thou have 
mine ? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie. 

To find it were in vain ; 
For thou' St a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one bi-east 
lie. 

And yet not lodge together ? 
O love! where is t:hy sympathy, 

If thus our breasts thou sever ? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out; 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell, care, and farewell, 
woe, 

I will no longer pine; 
For I'll believe I have her heart 

As nuich as she has mine. 



SURREY. 



551 



Earl of Surrey (Henry Howard). 



THE MEANS 



ro ATTAIX HAPPY 
LIFE. 



Martial, the things that do attain 
Tlie hapi:)y life, be these, I tind ; 

The riches left, not got with jjain ; 
The fruitfnl ground, the quiet 
mind : 

The equal friend, no grudge, no 
strife; 

No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
Without disease, the healthful life; 

The household of continuance : 

The mean diet, no delicate fare; 
True wisdom joined with simple- 
ness; 
The night discharged of all care. 
Where Avine the wit may not op- 
press : 

The faithful wife, without debate; 
Such sleeps as may beguile the 
night. 
Content thee with thine own estate; 
Ne wish for death, ne fear his 
misrht. 



FROir "XO AGE IS COXTEyiV 

I saw the little boy 

In thought — how oft that he 
Did wish of God to "scape the rod, 

A tall yoiuig man to be : 
The young man eke. that feels 

His bones with pains opprest, 
How he would be a rich old man, 

To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old man that sees 

His end draw on so sore. 
How he Avould be a boy again, 

To live so nuich the more; 
Whereat full oft I smiled. 

To see how all these three, 
From boy to man, from man to boy, 

Would chop and change degree. 



IN PPAISE OF HIS LADY-LOVE 
COMPARED WITH ALL OTIIEIIS. 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 
That spent your boasts and brags 
in vain; 
My lady's beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well 
say'n. 
Than doth the sun the candle 

light. 
Or brightest day the darkest night. 

And thereto hath a troth as just 
As had Tenelope the fair: 

For what she saith ye may it trust, 
As it l)y writing sealed were: 

And virtues hath she many mo' 

Than I with pen have" skill to 
show. 

I could rehearse, if that I would, 
The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 

When she had lost the perfit mould. 
The like to whom she could not 
paint : 

With wringing hands, how she did 

ci-y, 

And what she said. I know it. I. 

I know she SAvore with raging mind. 

Her kingdom only set apart. 
There was no loss by law of kind 
That could have gone so near her 
heart ; 
And this was chiefly ail her pain: 
■'yiie could not make the like 
a<rain." 



Sith Jfature thus gave her the praise 
To be the chiefest work she 
wrought; 
In faith, nunhink! some better ways 
On your behalf miglit well l)e 
sought. 
Than to compare, as ye have done. 
To match the candle with the sut^. 



Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

IN MEMORY OF BARRY CORNWALL. 

In the garden of death, where the singers whose names are deathless, 

One with another make music milieard of men, 
Where the dead sweet roses fade not of lips long breathless, 

And tlie fair eyes shine that shall weep not or change again. 
Who comes now crowned with the blossom of snow-white years ? 
What music is this that the world of the dead men hears ? 

Beloved of men, whose words on our lips were honey, 
Wliose name in our ears and our fathers' ears was sweet, 

Like summer gone forth of the land his songs made sunny. 

To the beautiful veiled bright world where the glad ghosts meet, 

Child, father, bridegroom and bride, and anguish and rest, 

No soul shall pass of a singer than this more blest. 

Blest for the years' sweet sake that were filled and brightened, 
As a forest with birds, with the fruit and the flower of his song; 

For the souls' sake blest that heard, and their cares were lightened, 
For the hearts' sake blest that have fostered his name so long; 

By the living and dead lips blest that have loved his name, 

And clothed with their praise and crowned with their love for fame. 

Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers that close not. 

That shrink not by day for heat or for cokl by night. 
As a thought in the heart shall increase when the heart's self knows not, 

Shall endure in our ears as a sound, in our eyes as a light; 
Shall wax with the years that wane and the seasons' chime. 
As a white rose thornless that grows in the garden of time. 

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another, 
And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake; 

The same year beckons, and elder with younger brother 
Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all shall take.* 

They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come ; 

And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsang them dumb. 

Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous. 
To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death; 

But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us, 
Nor the lips lack song forever that now lack breath. 

For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell. 

Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and \\q farewell. 



FROM " A riSrON OF SPRING rN WINTER: 

As sweet desire of day before the day, 
As dreams of love before the true love born, 
From the outer edge of winter overworn 

The ghost arisen of May before the May 



Sydney Dobell died the same year. 



SWINBURNE. 



553 



Takes through dim air lier iiiiawakened way, 

Tlie gracious gliost of raoniiug risen ere mom. 
With little unblown breasts and child-eyed looks 
Following, the very maid, the girl-child spring, 
Lifts windward her bright brows. 
Dips her light feet in warm and moving brooks, 
And kindles with her own mouth's coloring 

The fearful firstlings of the plumeiess boughs. 

I seek thee sleeping, and awhile I see. 

Fair face that art not, how thy maiden breath 

Shall put at last the deadly days to death 
And fill the fields, and fire the woods with thee, 
And seaward hollows where my feet would be 

When heaven shall hear the word that April saith, 
To change the cold heart of the weary time. 

To stir and soften all the time to tears. 
Tears joyfuller than mirth; 
As even to May's cleaf height the young days climb 

With feet not swifter than those fair first years 

Whose flowers revive not with thy flowers on earth. 

I would not bid thee, though I might, give back 

One good thing youth has given and borne away; 

I crave not any comfort of the day 
That is not, nor on time's retrodden track 
Would turn to meet the white-robed hours or black 

That long since left me on their mortal Avay ; 
Nor light nor love that has been, nor the breath 

That comes with morning from the sun to be 
And sets light hope on fire : 
No fruit, no flower ihought once too fair for death. 

No flower nor hour once fallen from life's green tree, 
No leaf once plucked or once-fulfilled desii-e. 

The morning song beneath the stars that fled 
With twilight through the moonless mountain air. 
While youtli with burning lips and wreathless hair 

Sang toward the sun that was to crown his head, 

Kising; the hopes that triumphed and fell dead. 
The sweet swift eyes and songs of liours that were: 

These may'st thou not give back forever; these, 
As at the sea's heart ail her wrecks lie waste, 
Lie deeper than the sea; 

But flowers thou may'st, and winds, and hours of ease, 
And all its April to the world thou may'st 
Give back, and half my April back to me. 



A FOBS AK EX GARDEN. 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland 
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, 

Walled round with rocks as an inland island, 
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 



A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 

The steep square slope of the blossoniless bed 
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses 
Now lie dead. 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, 

To the low last edge of the long lone sand. 
If a step should sound or a word be spoken, 

Would a ghost not rise of the strange guest's hand ? 
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless. 

Through branches and briers if a man make way, 
He shall find no life but the sea-Avind's, restless 
Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 

That crawls by a track none txirn to climb 
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 

Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; 

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken. 
These remain. 

Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not; 

As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; 
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, 

Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and wither 

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; 
Only the sun and the rain come hither, 
All year long. 

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels 
One gatmt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 

Only the wind here hovers and revels 

In a round where life seems barren as death. 

Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping. 
Haply, of lovers none ever will know, 

AVhose eyes went seaward, a hundred sleei^ing 
Years ago. 



Heart hand fast in heart as they stood, " Look thither."' 
Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the flowers to the sea; 

For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither. 
And men that love lightly may die — but we ? " 

And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened. 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed. 

In th(> lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened. 
liOve was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither ? 

And were one to the end — but what end who knows ? 
Love deep as the sea, as a rose must wither. 

As tlie rose-red sea-weed that mocks tlie rose. 



Shall the dead take thotight for the dead to love them ? 

What love was ever as deep as a a;rave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them, 
Or the wave. 

All are at one now. roses and lovers, 

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 

In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter 

Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep. 
When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter, 
We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again forever; 

Here change may come not till all change end. 
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, 

Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, 

While the sun and the rain live, these shalTbe; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing 
Roll the sea ; 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. 

Till the strength of the waves of the'high tides humble 
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink. 

Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, 

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, 
Death lies dead. 



A MATCff. 



If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather. 
Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
Green pleasure or gray grief : 
If love were what the rose is. 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tune. 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 
With kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet rain at noon; 
If I were what the words are 
And love were like the tune. 



If you were life, my darling. 

And I your love were death. 
We'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful lireath; 
If you were life, my darling. 

And 1 your love were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy. 
We'd play for lives and seasons. 
With loving looks and treasons 
And tears of night and morrow. 

And laughs oi maid and boy; 
If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 



556 



SWINBURNE. 



If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in ]May, 

We'd throw with leaves tor hours. 

And draw for days with flowers, 

Till day like niu;lit were shady. 
And night were hright like day; 

If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 
We'd hunt <lown love together, 
Pluck out his flying-feather, 
And teach his feet a measure, 
And find his mouth a rein; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 
And I were king of pain. 



FROM" CHRISTMAS ANTIPHONES: 
IN CHUKCH. 

Thou whose birth on earth 

Angels sang to men. 
While thy stars made mirth. 
Saviour, at thy birth. 

This day born again ; 

As this night was bright 

With thy cradle-ray, 
Very Light of light, 
Turn the wild world's night 

To thy i)erfect day. 

God, whose feet made sweet 
Those wild ways they trod. 

From thy fragrant feet 

Staining field and street 
With the blood of God; 

God, whose breast is rest 

In the time of strife. 
In thy secret breast 
Sheltering souls opprest 

From the heat of life; 

God, whose eyes are skies, 
Love-lit as with spheres, 

By the lights that rise 

To thy watching eyes, 
Orbed lights of tears; 



God, whose heart hath part 

In all grief tliat is. 
Was not man's the dart 
That M'cnt through thine heart, 

And the wound not his ? 

Where the pale souls wail, 
Held in bonds of death, 

Where all spirits quail. 

Came thy Godhead pale 
Still from human breath, — • 

Pale from life and strife, 

Wan with manhood, came 
Forth of mortal life. 
Pierced as with a knife. 
Scarred as with a flame. 

Thou, the Word and Lord 

In all time and space 
Heard, beheld, adored. 
With all ages poured 

Forth before thy face; 

Lord, what worth in earth 
Drew thee down to die? 
What therein was worth, 
Lord, thy death and birtli ? 
AVhat beneath thy sky ? 

Light, above all love, 

By thy love was lit. 
And brought down the dove 
Feathered from above 

With the wings of it. 

From the height of night, 
Was not thine the star 

That led forth with might 

By no worldly light 
Wise men from afar ? 

Yet the wise men's eyes 

Saw thee not more clear 
Than they saw thee rise 
Who in shepherd's guise 
Drew as poor men near. 

Yet thy poor endure. 

And are with us yet; 
Be thy name a sure 
Befuge for thy poor 

Wiiom men's eyes forget. 



SWINBURNE. 



557 



Thou whose ways we praise, 
Clear alike and dark. 

Keep our works and ways 

This and all thy days 
Safe inside thine ark. 

Who shall keep thy sheep, 

Lord, and lose not one ? 

AVlio save one sliall keep. 

Lest the shepherds sleep ? 

Who beside the Son ? 

From the grave-deep wave. 

From the sword and flame, 
Thou, even Thou, shalt save 
Soids of king and slave 
Only by thy Name. 

Light not born witli morn 

Or her fires above, 
Jesus virgin-born, 
Held of men in scorn, 

Turn their scorn to love. 

Thou whose face gives grace 

As the sun's doth heat, 
Let thy sunbright face 
Lighten time and space 
Here beneath thy feet. 

Bid our peace increase, 
Tliou. that madest morn ; 

Bid oppressions cease ; 

Bid the night be peace ; 
Bid the day be born. 

OUTSIDE CHUIiC'H. 

We whose days and ways 
All the night makes dark, 

What day shall we praise 

Of these weary days 
That our life-drops mark ? 

We whose mind is blind, 

Fed with hope of nought; 
Wastes of worn mankind, 
Witliout heart or mind. 
Without meat or thought; 

We with strife of life 

Worn till all life cease, 
Want, a whetted knife. 
Sharpening strife on strife. 
How should we love peace ? 



Ye whose meat is sweet 

And your wine-cup red, 
ITs beneath your feet 
Hunger grinds as wheat. 
Grinds to make you bread. 

Ye whose night is bright 
With soft rest and heat. 

Clothed like day with liglit, 

Us the naked night 
Slays from street to street. 

Hath your God no rod, 
That ye tread so light ? 

Man on us as God, 

God as man hath trod. 
Trod us down with might. 

We that one by one 

Bleed from cither's rod, 

What for us hath done 

Man beneath the sun. 
What for us hath God ? 

We whose blood is food 

Given your wealth to feed, 
From the Christless rood 
lied with no God's blood. 
But with man's indeed; 

How shall we that see 

Night-long overhead 
Life, the flowerless tree. 
Nailed whereon as we 

Were our fathers dead, — 

We whose ear can hear, 
Not whose tongue can name, 

Famine, ignorance, fear. 

Bleeding tear by tear. 
Year by year of sliame. 

Till the dry life die 

Out of bloodless breast, 
Out of beandess eye. 
Out of mouths that cry 
Till death feed with rest,— 

How shall we as ye. 

Though ye bid us, pray ? 

Though ye call, can we 

Hear you call, or see. 

Though ye show us day ? 



558 



SYMONDS. 



We whose name is shame, 
We Avhose souls walk bare, 

Shall we call the same 

God as ye by name. 
Teach om- lips your prayer ? 

God, forgive and give. 

For His sake who died ? 
Nay, for ours who live, 
How shall we forgive 

Thee, then, on our side ? 

We whose right to light 

Heaven's high noon denies. 
Whom the blind beams smite 
That for you shine bright. 
Anil but burn our eyes. 

With what dreams of beams 

Shall we build up day, 
At what sourceless streams 
Seek to drink in dreams 
Ere they pass away ? 



In what street shall meet, 
At what market-place. 
Your feet and our feet. 
With one goal to greet, 
Having run one race ? 

AVhat one hope shall ope 

For us all as one, 
One same horoscope. 
Where the soul sees hope 

That outburns the sun ? 

At what shrine what wine. 
At what board what bread, 

Salt as blood or brine. 

Shall we share in sign 
How Ave poor were fed ? 

In what hour what power 
Shall we pray for morn, 
If your perfect hour, 
AVhen all day bears flower, 
Not for us is born ? 



John Addington Symonds. 



MENE, MENE. 

That precious, priceless gift, a soul 
Unto thyself surrendered whole, 
\Vithdra\vn from all but thy control, 
Thou hast foregone. 

The throne where iu)ne might sit but 

thou, 
The crown of love to bind thy brow. 
Glad homage paid with praise and 

vow. 

Thou hast foregone. 

I do not blame thee utterly, 
But rather strive to pity thee. 
Remembering all the elnpery 

Thou hast foregone. 

It was thy folly, not thy crime, 
To have contemned the call sublime, 
The realm more firm than fate or 
time 

Thou hast foregone. 



BE AT I ILLI. 

Blkst is the man whose heart and 
hands are pure ! 

He hath no sickness that he shall not 
cure. 

No sorrow that he may not well en- 
dure: 

His feet are steadfast and his hope is 
sure. 

Oh, blest is he who ne'er hath sold 

his soul, 
AVhose will is perfect, and whose 

word is whole. 
Who hath not paid to common sense 

the toll 
Of self-disgrace, nor owned the 

Avorld's control! 

Through clouds and shadows of the 

(iarkest night 
He will not lose a glimmering of the 

light. 



SYMONDS. 



559 



Nor. though the sun of day be 

shrouded quite, 
Swerve from the narrow path to left 

or riarht. 



ON THE HILL-Sini:. 

The winds beliind me in the thicket 

sigh, 
Tlie bees fly droning on laborious 

wing, 
Pink cloudlets scarcely float across 

the sky. 
September stillness broods o'er every- 

tiiing. 
Deep peace is in my soul: I seem to 

hear 
Catullus murmuring, "Let us live 

and love ; 
Suns rise and set, and fill the rolling 

year 
Which bears us deathward, therefore 

let us love; 
Poiu' forth the wine of kisses, let 

them flow. 
And let us drink our fill before we 

die." 
Hush! ill the thicket still the breezes 

blow; I sky; 

Pink cloudlets sail across the azure 

The bees warp lazily on laden 

wing; 
Beauty and stillness brood o'er 

everything. 



THE WILL. 

Blamk not the times in which we 

live. 
Nor Fortune frail and fugitive; 
Blame not thy parents, nor the rule 
Of vice or wrong once learned at 

school; 
But blame thyself, O man! 

Although both heaven and earth 

combined 
To mould thy flesh and form thy 

mind, 
Though every thought, word, action, 

^will. 
Was framed by powers beyond thee, 
still 
Thou art thyself, O man ! 



And self to take or leave is free, 
Feeling its own sufficiency : 
In spite of science, spite of fate. 
The judge within thee, soon or late, 
AVill blame but thee, O man! 

Say not, " I would, but could not — 
He 

Should bear the blame who fash- 
ioned me — 

Call you mere change of motive 
choice ? " — 

Scorning such pleas, the inner voice 
Cries, " Thine the deed, O man! " 



FAREWELL. 

Thou goest: to what distant place 
Wilt thou thy sunlight carry ? 

I stay with cold and (bonded face: 
How long am 1 to tarry ? 

Where'er thou goest, morn will be: 

Thou leavest night and gloom to me. 

The night and gloom I can but take: 
I do not grudge thy splendor: 

Bid souls of eager men awake ; 

Be kind and l)right and tender. 

Give day to other worlds; for me 

It must suffice to dream of thee. 



NEW LIFE, NEW LOVE. 

Apiul is in; 
New loves begin! 
Up, lovers all, 
The cuckoos call ! 
Winter is by. 
Blue shines the sky, 
Primroses blow 
Where lay cold snow: 
Then why should I 
Sit still and sigh '? 

Death took my dear: 
Oh, pain ! Oh. fear! 
I know not whither. 
When flowers did wither, 
My summer love 
Flew far above. 



560 



SYMONDS. 



Now must I find 
One to my mind : 
The world is wide ; 
Spring fields are pied 
With flowers for thee, 
New love, and me ! 

April is in : 
New loves begin ! 
Up, lovers all, 
The cuckoos call ! 



FliOM FRIEND TO FRIES D. 

Dear friend, I know not if such 

days and nights 
Of fervent comradeship as we have 

spent, 
Or if twin minds with equal ardor 

bent 
To search the world's unspeakable 

delights. 
Or if long hours passed on Parnas- 
sian heights 
Together in rapt interminglement 
Of heart with heart on thought 

sublime intent. 
Or if the spark of heaven-born fire 

that lights 
Love in both breasts from boyhood, 

thus have wrought 
Our spirits to communion; but I 

swear 
That neitlier chance nor change 

nor time nor aught 
That makes the future of our lives 

less fair, 
Shall sunder us Avho once 

breathed this air. 
Of soul-commingling friendship 

passion-fraught. 



have 



THE PONTE DI PARADISO. 

Of all the mysteries wherethrough 

we move. 
This is the most mysterious — that 

a face, 
Seen peradventure in some distant 

place. 
Whither we can return no more to 

prove 



The world-old sanctities of human 
love. 

Shall haunt our waking thouglits, 
and gathering grace 

Incorporate itself with every phase 

Whereby the soul aspires to God 
above. 
Thus are we wedded through that 
face to her 

Or him who bears it ; nay, one fleet- 
ing glance. 

Fraught with a tale too deep for 
utterance, 
Even as a pebble cast into the sea, 

AVill on the deep waves of our spirit 
stir 

Eipples that run through all eter- 
nity. 



[From The Alps and Italy.] 
SELF. 

'Tis self whereby we suffer; 'tis the 
greed 

To grasp, the hunger to assimilate 

All that earth holds of fair and 
delicate. 

The lust to blend with beauteous 
lives, to feed 
And take our fill of loveliness, which 
breed 

This anguish of the soul intempe- 
rate ; 

'Tis self that turns to pain and poi- 
sojious hate 

The calm clear life of love the 
angels lead. 
O, that 'twere possible this self to 
burn 

In tlie pure flames of joy contem- 
plative ! 



THE PRAYER TO MXEMOSYXE. 

Lady, when first the message came 
to me 
Of thy great hope and all thy future 

V)hss, 
I had no envy of that happiness 
Which sets a limit to our joy in thee: 
I3ut uttering orisons to gods who see 
Our mortal strife, and bidding them 
to bless 



SYMONDS. 



561 



With increase of pure good thy 
goodliness, 
I made unto the mild Mnemosyne 
More for myself than thee one prayer 
— that when 
Our paths are wholly severed, and 
thy years 
(ilide among other cares and far-off 
men, 
She may watch over thee, as one 

who hears 
The music of the past, and in thine 
ears 
Murmur " They live and love thee 
now as then." 



SOyXETS FROM "INTELLECTUAL 
ISOLATION." 

Xay, soul, though near to dying, do 

not this ! 
It may be that the world and all 

its ways 
Seem but spent ashes of extin- 
guished days 
And love, the phantom of imagined 

bliss; 
Yet what is man among the mysteries 
Whereof the young-eyed angels 

sang their praise ? 
Thou know'st not. Lone and wil- 

dered in the maze. 
See that life's crown thou dost not 

idly miss. 
Is friendship fickle ? Ilast thou 

foinid her so ? 
Is God more near thee on that 

homeless sea 
Than by the hearths where chil- 
dren come and go ? 
Perchance some rotten root of sin in 

thee 
Hath made thy garden cease to 

bloom and glow: 
Ilast thou no need from thine own 

self to flee ? 



It is the centre of the soul that ails : 
We carry with us our own heart's 

disease ; 
And craving the impossible, we 
freeze 



The lively rills of love that never 
fails. 
What faith, what hope will lend the 
spirit sails 

To waft her with a light spray- 
scattering breeze [sies, 

From this Calypso isle of phanta- 

Self-sought, self-gendered, where 
the daylight i)ales ? 
Where wandering visions of foregone 
desires 

Pursue her sleepless on a stony 
strand ; 

Instead of stars tlie bleak and bale- 
ful fires 
Of vexed imagination, quivering 
spires 

That have nor rest nor substance, 
light the land. 

Paced by lean hungry men, a 
ghostly band ! 

On, that the waters of oblivion 
Might purge the burdened soul of 

her life's dross. 
Cleansing dark overgrowths that 

dull the gloss 
Wherewith her pristine gold so 

purely shone ! 
Oh, that some spell might make us 

dream un<lone 
Those deeds that fret our pillow, 

when we toss 
Racked by the torments of that 

living cross 
Where memory frowns, a grim 

centurion ! [smart. 

Sleep, the kind soother of our bodily 

Is bought and sold by scales-weight ; 

quivering nerves 
Sink into slumber when the hand 

of art 
Hath touched some hidden spring of 

brain or heart : 
But for the tainted will no medi- 
cine serves ; 
The road from sin to suffering 

never swerves. 



What skill shall anodyne the mind 
diseased ? 
Did Rome's fell tyiant cure his 
secret sore 



562 



TALFOURD. 



With those famed draughts of 
coohiig hellebore ? 
What opiates on the fiends of thought 

have seized ? 
This fever of the spirit liath been 
eased 
13y no grave simples culled on any 
shore ; 
No surgeon's knife, no muttered 
ciiann, no lore 
Of Phoebus Paian have those pangs 
appeased. 



Herself must be her savior. Side by 
side 

Spring poisonous weed and hope- 
ful antidote 

Within her tangled herbage ; lonely 
pride 
And humble fellow-service; dreams 
that dote 

Deeds that aspire; foul sloth, free 
labor: she 

Hath power to choose, and what 
she wills, to be. 



Thomas Noon Talfourd. 



[From Ion.] 
LITTLE KINDNESSES. 

The blessings which the weak and 

poor can scatter 
Have their own season. 'Tis a little 

thing 
To give a cup of water; yet its 

draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained by fe- 
vered lips, 
May give a shock of pleasure to the 

frame 
More exquisite tlian when nectarian 

juice 
Renews the life of joy in happiest 

hoiu's. 
It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort, which by daily 

use 
Has almost lost its sense ; yet in the 

ear 
Of him who thought to die un- 

moiu'ned, 'twill fall 
Like choicest nmsic, fill the glazing 

eye 
With gentle tears ; relax the knotted 

hand 
To know the bonds of fellowship 

again. 
And shed on the departmg soul, a 

sense 
More precious than the benison of 

friends 
About the honored death-bed of the 

rich 



To him who else were lonely, that 

another 
Of the great family is near, and 

feels. 



OX THE RECEPTION OF WORDS- 
WORTH AT OXFORD. 

On! never did a mighty truth pre- 
vail 
With such felicities of place and 

time 
As in those shouts sent forth with 

joy sublime 
Fram the full heart of England's 

youth, to hail 
Her once neglected bard within the 

pale 
Of Learrnng's fairest citadel! That 

voice. 
In which the future thunders, bids 

rejoice 
Some who through wintry fortunes 

did not fail 
To bless with love as deep as life, 

the name 
Thus welcomed ; — who in happy 

silence share 
The tiiumph; while their fondest 

musings claim 
Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous 

air. 
That to their long-loved poet's spirit 

bear. 
A nation's promi:-e of undying fame. 



TANNAUILL. 



503 



Robert Tannahill. 



THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE 
B URN. 

The midges dance aboou the burn; 

The dews begin to fa' ; 
The pairtriclcs down tlie rusliy liolm 

!Set up their e'eningca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's 
sang 

Rings through the briery shaw, 
While flitting gay, tlie swallows play 

Around the castle wa'. 

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 

The mavis mends her lay; 
The red-breast pours his sweetest 
strains, 

To charm the ling'ring day; 
While weary yeldrins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn, 
The merry wren, t'rae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The foxglove shuts its bell; 
The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry. 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer tar to me. 



THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. 



The 



the 



sun has gane down o'er 
lofty Benlomond, 
And left the i-ed clouds to preside 
o'er the scene. 
While lanely I stray in the calm sum- 
mer gloamin', 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower 
o' Dumblane. 



How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft 
fauldin' blossom. 
And sweet is the birk, wi' its man- 
tle o' green ; 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to 
this bosom. 
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower 
o' Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as 
she's bonnie. — 
For guileless simplicity marks her 
its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of 
feeling, 
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet 
flower o" Dumblane. 

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn 
to the e'ening, — 
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Cal- 
derwood glen ; 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless 
and winning. 
Is charming young Jessie, the 
flower o' Dumblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' 
my Jessie! 
The sports o' the city seemed fool- 
ish and vain ; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my 
dear lassie 
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the 
flower o' Dumblane. 

Though mine were the station o' 
loftiest grandeur, 
Amidst its profusion I'd languish 
in pain, 
And reckon as naething the height 
o' its splendor. 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower 
o' Dumblane. 




564 



TAYLOR. 



Bayard Taylor. 



ON THE IIEADLAXD. 

I SIT on the lonely headland, 

Where the sea-gulls come and go : 

The sky is gray above me, 
And the sea is gray below. 

There is no fisherman's pinnace 
Homeward or outward bound ; 

I see no living creature 

In the world's deserted round. 

I pine for something human, 
Man, woman, young or old, — 

Something to meet and welcome. 
Something to clasp and hold. 

I have a mouth for kisses, 

But there's no one to give and 
take; 
I have a heart in my bosom 

Beating for nobody's sake. 

() warmth of love that is wasted! 

Is there none to stretch a hand ? 
Xo other heart that hungers 

In all the living land ? 

I could fondle the fisherman's baliy, 

And rock it into rest; 
1 could take the sunburnt sailor, 

Like a brother, to my breast, 

1 could clasp the hand of any 

Outcast of land or sea, 
If the guilty palm but answered 

The tenderness in me ! 

The sea might rise and drown me; 

Cliffs fall and crush my head, — 
Were there one to love me, living, 

( )r weep to see me dead ! 



THE FATHEIt. 

The fateful hour, when death stood 
by 
And stretched his tlireatening hand 
in vain. 
Is over now, and life's first cry 
Speaks feeble triumph through its 
pain. 



But yesterday, and thee the earth 
Inscribed not on her mighty 
scroll : 
To-day she opes the gate of birth. 
And gives the spheres another 
soul. 

But yesterday, no fruit from me 
The rising winds of time had 
hurled 

To-day, a father, — can it be 

A child of mine is in the world '^ 

I look upon the little frame. 
As helpless on my arm it lies: 

Thou giv'st me, child, a father's 
name, 
God's earliest name in Paradis(». 

Like Him, creator too I stand : 
His power and mystery seem more 
near ; 

Thou giv'st me honor in the land. 
And giv'st my life duration here. 

But love, to-day, is more than pride; 
Love sees his star of triumph 
shine. 
For life nor death can now divide 
The souls that wedded breathe in 
thine: 

Mine and thy mother's, whence arose 
The copy of my face in thee; 

And as thine eyelids first unclose. 
My own young eyes look up to 
me. 

Look on me, child, once more, once 
more. 
Even with those weak, uncon- 
scious eyes; 
Stretcli the small hands that help im- 
plore ; 
Salute me with thy wailing cries! 

This is the blessing and the prayer 
A father's sacred place demands: 

Ordain me, darling, for thy care. 
And lead me with thy helpless 
hands ! 



TAYLOR. 



5()r) 



A FUNERAL THOUGHT. 

When the stern genius, to whose 
hollow tramp 
Echo the startled chambers of the 
soul, 
Waves his inverted torch o'er that 
pale camp 
Where the archangel's final trum- 
pets roll, 
1 would not meet him in the chamber 
dim, 
Hushed, and pervaded with a name- 
less fear. 
When the breath flutters and the 
senses swim. 
And the dread hour is near. 

Though love's dear arms might clasp 
me fondly then 
As if to keep the Summoner at bay. 
And woman's woe and the calm grief 
of men 
Hallow at last the chill, unbreath- 
ing clay, — 
These are earth's fetters, and the soul 
would shrink. 
Thus bound, from darkness and the 
dread unknown, 
IStretching its arms from death's eter- 
nal brink, 
Which it must dare alone. 

But in the awful silence of the sky. 
Upon some moimtain summit, yet 
untrod. 
Through the blue ether would I 
climb, to die 
Afar from moi'tals and alone with 
God ! 
To the pure keeping of the stainless air 
Would I resign my faint and flut- 
tering breath. 
And with the rapture of an answered 
prayer 
Receive the kiss of Death. 

Then to the elements my frame would 
turn; 
No worms should riot on my cof- 
fined clay, 
Ihit the cold limbs, from that sepul- 
chral urn. 
In the slow stoi'ins of ages waste 
away. 



Loud winds and thunder's diapason 

high 

Should be my requiem through the 

coming time, Ls^Y) 

And the white summit, fading in the 

My monument sublime. 



PROPOSAL. 

The violet loves a sunny bank. 

The cowslip loves the lea ; 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
But I love — thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale. 

The stars, they kiss the sea ; 
The west winds kiss the clover-bloom. 
But I kiss — thee ! 

The oriole weds his mottled mate: 

The lily's bride of tJie bee; 
Heaven's marriage-ring is round the 
earth, — 
Shall 1 wed thee ? 



WIND AND SEA. 

The sea is a jovial conu'ade. 

He laughs wherever he goes ; 
His merriment shines in the dim- 
pling lines 
That wrinkle his hale repose; 
He lays himself down at the feet of 
the Sun, 
And shakes all over with glee, 
And the broad-backed billows fall 
faint on the shore. 
In the mirth of the mighty Sea! 

But the Wind is sad and restless, 

And cursed with an inward pain! 
You may hark as you will, by valley 
or hill, 
But you hear him still complain. 
He wails on the barren mountains. 

And shrieks on the wintry sea; 
He sobs in the cedar, and moans in 
the pine. 
And shudders all over the aspen 
tree. 

Welcome are both their voices, 
And I know not which is best, — 



566 



TAYLOR. 



The laughter that slips from the 
Ocean's lips, 
Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. 
There's a pang in all rejoicing, 

A joy in the heart of pain. 
And the Wind that saddens, the Sea 
that gladdens, 
Are singing the self-same strain! 



IN THE MEADOWS. 

I LIE in the smnmer meadows. 

In the meadows all alone. 
With the infinite sky above me, 

And the sun on his midday throne. 

The smell of the flowering grasses 

Is sweeter than any rose. 
And a million happy insects 

Sing in th(! warm repose. 

The mother lark that is brooding 
Feels the sun on her wings, 

And the deeps of the noontlay glitter 
With swarms of fairy things. 

From the billowy green beneath me 
To the fathomless blue above, 

The creatures of God are happy 
In the warmth of their summer 
love. 

The infinite bliss of Nature 

I feel in every vein ; 
The light and the life of summer 

Blossom in heart and brain. 

But darker than any shadow 
By thunder-clouds unfurled, 

The awful truth arises, 

That Death is in the world. 

And the sky may beam as ever, 
And never a cloud be curled; 

And the airs be living odors. 
But Death is in the world ! 

Out of the deeps of sunshine 
The invisible bolt is hurled : 

There's life in the summer meadows, 
But Death is in the world. 



BEFORE THE BRIDAL. 

Now the night is overpast. 
And the mist is cleared away: 

On my barren life at last 
Breaks the bright, reluctant day. 

Day of payment for the wrong 
I was doomed so long to bear; 

Day of promise, day of song, 
Day that makes the future fair! 

Let me wake to bliss alone; 

Let me bury every fear: 
What I prayed for is my own ; 

What was distant, now is near. 

For the happy hour that waits 
No reproachful shade shall bring. 

And I hear forgiving Fates 
In the happy bells that ring. 

Leave the song that now is mute, 
For the sweeter song begun : 

Leave the blossom for the fruit, 
And the rainbow for the sun! 



S Q UA XDERED LI] ^ES. 

The fisherman wades in the surges; 

The sailor sails over the sea; 
The soldier steps bravely to battle; 

The woodman lays axe to the tree. 

They are each of the breed of the 

heroes. 

The manhood attempered in strife; 

Strong hands that go lightly to labor, 

True hearts that take comfort in 

life. 

In each is the seed to replenish 

The world with the vigor it needs,— 

The centre of honest affections, 
The impulse to generous deeds. 

But the shark drinks the blood of the 
fisher ; 
Tlie sailor is dropped in the sea; 
The soldier lies cold by his cannon; 
The woodman is crushed by his 
tree. 



TAYLOR. 



567 



Each prodigal life that is ■wasted 
In manly achievement nnseen, 

lUit lengthens the days of the coward, 
And strengthens the crafty and 
mean. 

The blood of the noblest is lavished 
That the selfish a profit may find; 

l]nt God sees the lives that are squan- 
dered, 
And we to Kis Avisdom are blind. 



THE LOST MAY. 

AViiEX May, with cowslip-braided 
locks, 
Walks through the land in green 
attire, 
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
His torch of purple fire : 

When buds have burst the silver 
sheath. 
And shifting pink, and gray, and 
gold 
Steal o'er the woods, while fair be- 
neath 
The bloomy vales unfold: 

When, emerald-bright, the hemlock 
stands 
Xew-feathered, needled new, the 
pine; 
And, exiles from the orient lands, 
The turbaned tulips shine : 

When wild azaleas deck the knoll. 
And cinque-foil stars the fields of 
home. 
And winds, that take the white-w^eed, 
roll 
The meadows into foam: 

Then from the jubilee I turn 
To other ]\Iays that I have seen. 

Where more resplendent blossoms 
burn, 
And statelier woods are green ; — 

Mays when my heart expanded first. 
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew ; 



And one sweet wind of heaven dis- 
persed 
The only clouds I knew. 

For she, whose softly murmured 
name 

The music of the month expressed, 
Walked by my side, in holy shame 

Of girlish love confessed, 

The budding chestnuts overhead. 
Their sprinkled shadows in the 
lane, — 
Blue flowers along the brooklet's 
bed, — 
I see them all again ! 

The old, old tale of girl and boy. 

Repeated ever, never old : 
To each in turn the gates of joy, 

The gates of heaven inifokl. 

And when the punctual May arrives, 
AVith cowslip-garland on her brow. 

We know what once she gave our 
lives. 
And cannot give us now! 



THE MYSTERY. 

Tiiou art not dead ; thou art not gone 
to dust; 
No line of all thy loveliness shall 
fall 
To forndess ruin, smote by Time, 
and thrust 
Into the solemn gulf that covers all. 

Tiiou canst not wholly perish, though 
the sod 
Sink with its violets closer to thy 
breast ; 
Though by the feet of generations 
trod. 
The headstone crumble from thy 
place of rest. 

The marvel of thy beauty cannot die ; 
The SM-eetness of thy presence shall 
not fade; 
Earth gave not all the glory of thine 
eye, — 
Death may not keep what Death has 
never made. 



5G8 



TAYLOR. 



It was not thine, that forehead 

strange and fold, 

Nor those (hnnl) lips, they hid be- 
neath the snow: 
Tltij heai-t woidd throb beneath that 
passive fold. 

Thy hands for me that stony clasji 
forego. 

JUit thou hadst gone, — gone from 
the dreary land. 
Gone from the storms let loose on 
every hill. 
Lured by the sweet persuasion of a 
hand 
Which leads thee somewhere in the 
distance still. 

Where'er thou art, I know thou 
wearest yet 
The same bewlldei-ing beauty, sanc- 
tified 
By calmer joy, and touched with soft 
regi-et 
For him who seeks, but cannot 
reach thy side. 

I keep for thee the living love of 
old, 
And seek thy place in Nature, as a 
child 
Whose hand is parted from his play- 
mate's hold. 
Wanders and cries along a lone- 
some wild. 

When, in the watches of my heart, I 
liear 
The messages of purer life, and 
knoAv 
The footsteps of thy spirit lingering 
near. 
The darkness hides the way that I 
should go. 

Canst thou not bid the empty realms 
restore 
That form, the synd)ol of thy 
heavenly part '.' 
Or on the fields of l)arren silence 
pour 
That voice, the perfect music of 
thy heart ? 



Oh, once, once bending to these wid- 
owed lips, 
Take back the tender warmth of 
life from me. 
Or let thy kisses cloud with swift 
eclipse 
The light of mine, and give me 
death with tliee ? 



THE SOXG OF THE CAMP. 

"Give us a song!" the soldiers 
cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps 
allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark l\edan, in silent scoff. 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the ta^\■ny mound of the ]Mala- 
koff 
No longer belched its tlumder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman 
said, 

" We storm the forts to-morrow; 
Sing while we may, another day 

Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 
Below the smoking cannon: 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from 
Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each iieart recalled a different name, 

lint all sang "Annie Lawrie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and 
strong, — 

Tlieir battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not 
speak. 

But, as the song grew louder. 
Something ui>on the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 



Beyond the darkening ocean biu'ned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Kained on the Russian quarters, 

AVith scream of shot, and burst of 
shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dundj and gory ; 

And English Mary moiu'ns for him 
AVho sang of " Airnie Lawrie."' 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



TO A BAVARIAN GIRL. 

Tuou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daugh- 
ter. 

Art a shape of joy. 
Standing by the Isar's water 

With thy brother-boy; 
In thy dream, with idle fingers 

Threading through his ctu'ls. 
On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers, 

Rosiest of girls ! 



Woods of glossy oak are ringing 

With the echoes bland. 
While thy generous voice is singing 

Songs of Fatherland, — 
Songs, that by the Daiuibe's river 

Sound on hills of vine. 
And where waves in green light 
quiver, 

Down the rushing Rhine. 

Life, with all its hues and changes, 

To thy heart doth lie 
Like those di'eamy Alpine ranges 

In the southern sky; 
Where in haze the clefts are hidden, 

Which the foot should fear. 
And the crags that fall luibidden 

Startle not the ear. 

Where the village maidens gather 

At the fountain's brim. 
Or in sunny harvest weather. 

With the reapers trim ; 
Where the autumn fires are burning 

On the vintage-hills ; 
Where the mossy wheels are turning 

In the ancient mills ; 

Where from ruined robber towers 

Hangs the ivy's hair. 
And the crimson foxbell floAvers 

On the crumbling stair; — 
Everywhere, without thy presence. 

Would the sunshine fail. 
Fairest of the maiden peasants I 

Flower of Isar's vale. 



Sir Henry Taylor. 



[From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
I TNKiXO JFa\ ore A TNESS. 

He was a man of that unsleeping 
spirit. 

He seemed to live by miracle; his 
food 

Was glory, which was poison to his 
nund 

And peril to his body. He was one 

Of many thousand such that die be- 
times, 



Whose story is a fragment, known 
to few. 

Then comes the man who has the 
luck to live. 

And he's a prodigy. Compute the 
chances, 

And deem there's ne'er a one in dan- 
gerous times 

Who wins the race of glory, but than 
him 

A thousand men more gloriously en- 
dowed 



Have fallen upon the course ; A thou- 
sand others 

Have had their fortunes foundered 
by a chance, 

Whilst "lighter barks pushed past 
them ; to whom add 

A smaller tally, of the singular few 

Who, gifted with predominating pow- 
ers, 

Bear yet a temperate will and keep 
the peace. 

The world knows nothing of its great- 
est men. 



[From Philip Van Artevehle.] 
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 

This circulating princiiile of life 
That vivifies the outside of the earth 
And permeates the sea; that here 

and there 
Awakening up a particle of matter. 
Informs it, organizes, gives it power 
To gather and associate to itself. 
Transmute, incorporate other, for a 

term 
Sustains the congruous fabric, and 

then quits it ; 
This vagrant principle so multiform, 
Ebullient here and undetected there, 
Is not unauthorized, nor increate. 
Though indestructible. Life never 

dies ; 
Matter dies off it, and it lives else- 
where, 
Or elsehow circumstancetl and 

shaped; it goes; 
At every instant we may say 'tis gone, 
But never it hath ceased ; the type is 

changed. 
Is ever in transition, for life's law 
To its eternal essence doth prescribe 
Eternal nmtability; and thus 
To say I live — says, I partake of that 
Which never dies. But how far I 

may hold 
An interest indivisible from life 
Through change (and whether it be 

mortal change. 
Change of senescence, or of gradual 

growth, 
Or other whatsoever 'tis alike) 



Is question not of argument, but fact. 

In all men some such interest inheres ; 

In most 'tis posthumous; the more 
expand 

Our thoughts and feelings past the 
very present, 

The more that interest overtakes of 
change 

And comprehends, till what it com- 
prehends 

Is comprehended in eternity. 

And in no less a span. 

Here we are 
Engendered out of nothing cogniza- 
ble. 
If this be not a wonder, nothing is; 
If this be Monderful, then all is so. 
Asian's grosser attributes can generate 
What is not, and has never been at all ; 
What should forbid his fancy to 

restore 
A being passed away '? The wonder 

lies 
In the mind merely of the wondering 

man. 
Treading the steps of common life 

with eyes 
Of curious inquisition, some will stare 
At each discovery of Nature's ways, 
As it were new to find that God con- 
trives. 



[From Philip Van Artevelde.'] 

LOVE RELUCTANT TO ENDANGER 
ITS OBJECT. 

TiiF.nE is but one thing that still 

harks me back. 
To bring a cloud upon the summer 

day 
Of one so happy and so beautiful, — 
It is a hard condition. For myself, 
I know not that the circumstance of 

life 
In all its changes can so far afflict me 
As makes anticipation much worth 

while. 
But she is younger, — of a sex beside 
Whose spirits are to ours as flame to 

fire. 
More sudden, and more perishable 

too; 



So that the gust wherewith the one 

is kindled 
Extinguislies the other. O she is fair! 
As fair as heaven to look upon ! as 

fair 
As ever vision of the Virgin blest 
That weary pilgrim, resting by the 

fount 
Beneath the palm, and dreaming to 

the tune 
Of flowing waters, duped his soul 

withal. 
It was permitted in my pilgrimage 
To rest beside the fomit beneath the 

tree, 
Beholding there no vision, but a maid 
Whose form was light and graceful 

as the palm. 
Whose heart was pure and jocund as 

the fount. 
And spread a freshness and a ver- 
dure round. 
This was iiermitted in my pilgrimage. 
And loath am I to take my staff again, 
Say that I fall not in this enterprise ; 
Yet must my life be full of hazardous 

turns. 
And they that house with me must 

ever live 
In imminent peril of some evil fate. 



\_From Phiiij) Van Artevelde.] 

NATURE'S NEED. 

The human heart cannot sustain 
Prolonged unalterable pain, 
And not till reason cease to reign 
Will nature want some moments brief 
Of other moods to mix with grief; 
Such and so hard to be destroyed 
That vigor wliieh abhors a void. 
And in the midst of all distress. 
Such Nature's need for happiness! 
And when she rallied thus, more 

high 
Her spirits ran, she knew not why. 
Than was their wont, in times than 

these 
Less troubled, with a heart at ease. 
So meet extremes: so joy's rebound 
Is highest from the hollowest ground; 
So vessels with the storm that strive 
Pitch higher as they deeplier dive. 



[From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
WHEN JO YS ARE KEEXES T. 

The sweets of converse and society 
Are sweetest when they're snatched; 

the often-comer. 
The boon companion of a thousand 

feasts. 
Whose eye has grown familiar with 

the fair. 
Whose tutored tongue, by practice 

perfect made, 
Is tamely talkative, — he never knows 
That truest, rarest light of social joy 
Which gleams upon the man of many 

cares. 



[From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
RELAXATION. 

It was not meant 
By him who on the back the biu'den 

bound. 
That cares, though public, critical, 

and grave. 
Should so encase us and encrust, as 

shuts 
The gate on what is beautiful below. 
And clogs those entries of the soul of 

man 
Whicli lead the way to what he hath 

of heaven. 



JVHAT MAKES A HERO' 

What makes a hero ? — not success, 

not fame. 
Inebriate merchants, and the loud 
acclaim 
Of glutted Avarice, — caps tossed 

up in air. 
Or pen of journalist with flourish 
fair; 
Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a 
titular name — 
These, though his rightful tribute, 
he can spare ; 
His rightful tribtite, not his end or 
aim. 
Or true reward ; for never yet did 
these 



i)i-J, 



TAYLOR. 



Refresh llie soul, or set the heart 
at ease. 
What makes a hero '.* — An heroic 

mind, 
Expressed in action, in endurance 
proved. [right. 

And if there be pre-eminence of 
Derived through pain well suffered, 
to the height 
f)f rank heroic, 'tis to bear un- 
moved. 
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or 

wind, 
Not the brute fury of barbarians 
blind. 
But worse — ingratitude and poi- 
sonous darts, 



Launched by the country he had 
served and loved: 
This, with a free, unclouded spirit 

pure, 
This, in the strength of silence to 
endure, 
A dignity to noble deeds imparts 
Beyond the gauds and trappings of 

renown ; 
This is the hero's complement and 
crown ; 
This missed, one struggle had been 

wanting still, — 
One glorious triumph of the heroic 
will. 
One self-approval in his heart of 
hearts. 



Jane Taylor. 



THE SQCIRE\S PE]V. 

A SLANTING ray of evening light 
Shoots through the yellow pane; 

It makes the faded crimson bright. 
And gilds the fringe again; 

The window's gothic framework falls 

In oblique shadow on the walls. 

And since those trappings first were 
new. 

How many a cloudless day. 
To rob the velvet of its hue. 

Has come and passed away ; 
How many a setting sun bath made 
That curious lattice-work of shade ! 

Crumbled beneath the hillock green 
Tlie cunning; hand must be. 

That carved this fretted door, I ween. 
Acorn, a,nd Jienr-de-Us ; 

And )iow the worm hath done her 
part 

In mimicking the chisel's art. 

In days of yore (as now we call^ 
When the first Jaiiics was king. 

The courtly knight from yonder hall 
Hither his train did bring; 

All seated round in order due, 

AVith broidered suit and buckled shoe. 



On damask cushions, set in fringe, 
All reverently they knelt: 

Prayer-books, witli brazen hasp and 
hinge. 
In ancient English spelt. 

Each holding in a lily hand. 

Responsive at the priest's counuand. 

Now, streaming down the vaulted 
aisle, 
The sunbeam, long and lone. 
Illumes the chai'acters awhile 
Of their inscription-stone ; 
And there, in marble hard and 

cold. 
The knight and all his train behold. 

Outstretched together, are expressed 

He and my lady fair; 
With hands uplifted on the breast. 

In attitude of prayer ; 
Long-visaged, clad in armor, he, — 
With ruffled ann and bodice, she. 

Set forth in order ere they died. 
The numerous offspring bend; 

Devoutly kneelin2*side by side, 
As though they did intend 

For past omissions to atone. 

By sayirig endless prayers in stone. 



TENNYSON. 



573 



These mellow days are past and dim. 

But generations new, 
In regular descent from him, 

Have filled the stately pew; 
And in the same succession go, 
To occupy the vault below. 

And now, the polished, modern squire 

And his gay train api)ear, 
Who duly to the hall retire, 

A season, every year, — 
And fill the seats with belle and beau, 
As 'twas so many years ago. 

Perchance, all though tlessas they tread 
The hollow soimding floor. 

Of that dark house of kindred dead, 
Which shall, as heretofore, 



In turn, receive, to silent rest, 
Another, and another guest, — 

The feathered hearse and sable 
train, 
In all its wonted state. 
Shall wind along the village lane. 

And stand before the gate ; 
Brought many a distant country 

through. 
To join the final rendezvous. 

And when the race is swept away. 

All to their dusty beds, 
Still shall the mellow evening ray 

Shine gayly o"er their heads: 
While other faces, fresh and new. 
Shall occupy the squire's pew. 



Alfred Tennyson. 

COUPLETS FROM ''LOCKSLEY HALL." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands: 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might: 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. 



As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof. 



Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, 
Let the great world spin forever dowTi the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 



574 



TENNrSON. 



[From In Memoriam.] 
STUOXG SON OF GOD. 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy 

face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove; 

Thine are these orbs of light and 

shade; 

Thou madest life in man and brute, 

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy 

foot 

Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why ; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 
And thou hast made him: thou art 
just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 
Tlie highest, holiest manhood, 

thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not 
how ; 
Our wills are ours, to make them 
thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of tliee. 

And thou,0 Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 
For knowledge is of things we see: 
And yet we trust it comes from 
thee, 

A beam in darkness: let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to 
more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell : 
That mind and soul according well. 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight : 
We mock thee when A\e do not 

fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 
Help thv vain worlds to bear thy 
light. 



Forgive what seemed my sin in me: 
A\ hat seemed my wortli since I 

began ; 
For merit lives from man to man. 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so 

fair, 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these Avild and wandering 
cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth : 
Forgive them Avhere they fail in 
truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me \\ise. 



[From III Memoriam.] 
HOPE FOR ALL. 

Oil, yet we trust that somehow good 
AVill be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood : 

That nothing walks, with aindess 
feet; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
AVhen God hath made the pile com- 
plete : 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a nioth with vain desire 
Is slirivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold we know not anything: 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far-off — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night: 
An infant crying for the light: 

And with no language but a cry. 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave 
Derives it not from wliat we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 



Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil 

dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

1 falter where I firmly trod, 
And falling with my weight of 

cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
That slope through darkness up to 
God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope, 
And" gather dust and chaff, and 

call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 
And faintly trust the larger hope. 



IFrom In Memoriam.'] 
SOUL TO SOUL. 

I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native 
land. 
Where first he walked when claspt in 
clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost. 
But he. the Spirit himself, may 

come 
Where all the nerve of sense is 
numb 
Spirit to spirit, ghost to ghost. 

Oh, therefore from thy sightless 
range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss. 
Oh, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter: hear 
The wish too strong for words to 
name ; 



That in this blindness of the frame 
My ghost may feel that thine is near. 



IFrom III Memoriam.] 

COXDITION OF SPIRITUAL 
COMMUNWX. 

How pure at heart and sound in 
head. 
With what divine affections bold. 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 
An hour's comnumion with the 
dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any. call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst 
say. 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the 
breast. 
Imagination calm and fair, 
Theinemory like a cloudless ail-. 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, 
And Doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



[From In Mi inoi'han.] 
FAITH I\ DOUBT. 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt. 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doulits and gathered 
strength. 
He would not make his judgment 

blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid tliem: thus he came at 
length 



570 



TENNYSON. 



To find a stronger faith his own : 
And Power was witli him in the 

night, 
Wliicli makes the darkness and tlie 
liglit, 
And dwells not in tlie liglit alone. 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of 
gold. 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 



[From In Memoriam.] 
TO A FRIEND IN HE A VEN. 

Deak friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal : 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher; 

Known and unknown: human, di- 
vine: 
Sweet human hand and lips and 

eye: 
Dear heavenly friend that canst 
not die, 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to 
■"be: 
Love deeplier, darklier understood : 
Behold, I dream a dream of good. 

And mingle all the world with thee. 

Thy voice is on the rolling air: 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
Tliou standest in tlie rising sun. 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art tliou then ? I cannot guess ; 

But though I seem in star and 
(lower 

To feel thee some diffusive power, 
I do not therefore love thee less: 

My love involves the love before : 
My love is vaster passion now; 
Though mixed with God and Na- 
ture thou. 

I seem to love thee more and more. 



Far off thou art, but ever nigh : 
I have thee still, and I rejoice: 
I prosper, circled with thy voice: 

I sliall not lose thee though I die. 



{From In ^[emol^i<^m.} 
liING OUT, WILD DELLS. 

Ring out, Avild bells, to the wild sky, 
Tlie flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the niglit ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let iiini die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false,"ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more : 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife : 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times : 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and 
blood. 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 
Ring in the common love of good! 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease: 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man ami free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand: 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



[From The Princess.] 
TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what 

they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine 

despair 
Rise in the heart, and gatlier to the 

eyes. 
In loolving on tlie happy autumn 

fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no 

more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering 

on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the 

imderworld. 
Sad as the last Avhich reddens over 

one 
That sinks with all we love below the 

verge : 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 

more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark 
summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened 
birds 

To dying ears, T\'hen unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glim- 
mering square: 

So sad, so strange, the days that are 
no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after 

death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feigned 
On lips that are for others : deep as 

love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all 

regret : 
O Death in Life, the days that are no 

more. 



[From The Princess.'] 
FOR HIS CHILD'S SAKE. 

Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 



Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called iiim worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe : 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 

Ijightly to the warrior stept, 
Took the face-cloth from the face: 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 



Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came 
tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



her 



[From The Princess.] 
RECONCILIA TION. 

As through the land at eve we went, 

And plucked the ripest ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the 
child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave. 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again witli tears. 



[From The Princess.] 
BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy sununits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the 

lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in 

glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying. 
Blow, bugle: answer, echoes, dying, 

dying, dying. 

Oh, hark, oh, hear! how thin and 
clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
Oh, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Ellland faintly blow- 
ins! 



578 



TENNYSON. 



Blow, let us hear the purple glens 

replying: 
Blow, bugle: answer echoes, dying, 

dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 
And answer echoes, answer, dying, 
dying, dying. 



[From The Princess.] 
NOW LIES THE EARTH. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to 
the stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, 
and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in 
me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweet- 
ness up. 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, 

and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me. 



\_From The Princess.] 
MAN AND WOMAN. 

For woman is not undeveloped man, 
But diverse: could we make her as 

the man, 
Sweet love were slain: his dearest 

bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they 

grow: 
The man be more of woman, she of 

man : 
He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height. 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that 

throw the world ; 



She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care. 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger 
mind ; 

Till at the last she set herself to man, 

Like perfect music unto noble words: 

And so these twain, upon the skirts 
of Time. 

Sit side by side, full-summed in all 
their powers. 

Dispensing harvest,sowing the To-be, 

Self-reverent each and reverencing 
each. 

Distinct in individualities, 

But like each other even as those 
who love. 



[From The Princess.] 
CRADLE SONG. 

Saveet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low. breathe and blow, 

AVind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and 
blow. 

Blow him again to me: 
While my little one, while my pretty 
one sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon: 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his balie in the 
nest. 

Silver sails all out of the Avest 
Under the silver moon: 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
one, sleep, 



[From The Princess.] 
ASK ME NO MORE. 

Ask me no more: the moon may 
draw the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven 

and take the shape, 
W^ith fold to fold, of mountain or 
of cape : 
But O too fond, Avhen have I an- 
swered thee ? 

Ask me no more. 



TENNl'SON. 



579 



Ask me no more: What answer 
should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded 

eye: 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have 
thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid 
thee live: 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine 
are sealed : 
1 strove against the stream and all 

in vain: 
Let the great river take me to the 
main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I 
yield: 

Ask me no more. 



[From The MUler''s DaUfjhti'r.] 
LOVE. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 

Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 
Ah, no! no! 



[From The Miller's Daughter.] 
HUSBAyn TO WIFE. 

Look through mine eyes with thine. 
True wife. 
Round my true heart thine arms 
entwine : 
My other dearer life in life, 
Look through my very soul with 
thine! 
Untouched with any shade of years. 
May those kind eyes forever dwell! 
They have not shed a many tears. 
Dear eyes, since first I knew tliem 
well. 



Yet tears they shed : they had tlieir 
part 
Of sorrow: for when time was 
ripe, 
The still affection of tlie heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness passed again. 

And left a want unknown before : 
Although tlie loss that brought us 
pain. 
That loss but made us love the 
more, 

AVith farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven aj-ms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in tliee: 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 
Two sjiirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hojie or 
thought. 
With blessings which no words 
can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 
And fires your narrow casement 
glass. 

Touching the sullen pool below: 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless, let us go. 



[From. The Miller's Daughter.] 
WHAT I WOULD BE. 

It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear. 
That 1 would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would lie the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heai't would beat against me. 
In sorrow and in rest: 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 



580 



TENNYSON. 



And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 



[From Merlin and Vivien.'] 
NOT AT ALL, OP, ALL IN ALL. 

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers ; 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in 

all. 

It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music 

mute. 
And ever widening slowly silence ah. 

The little rift within the lover's 

lute 
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, 
That rotting inward, slowly moulders 

all. 

It is not worth the keeping: let 

it go: 
But shalfit ? answer, darling, answer, 

no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all. 



\_From Maud.'] 
GARDEN SONG. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone: 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 



To faint in the light of the sun that 
she loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon : 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirred 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking 
bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be 
gay. 
When will the dancers leave her 
alone ? 
She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting inoon are 
gone. 
And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the 
stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, '" The brief night 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
those. 
For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but nune," so I sware to 
the rose, 
" Forever and ever, mine." 

And the soul of the rose went into 
my blood, 
As the nuisic clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I iieard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 
That whenever a March wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet, 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we 
meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 




COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 



Page 580. 



TENNYSON. 



581 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the ti'ee; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the 
lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
yovu' sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done. 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
She is coming, my life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, '" She is near, she 
is near;" 
And th« white rose weeps, " She is 
late;"' 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I 
hear ; " ' 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her, and beat, 

AVere it earth in an earthy bed. 
My dust would hear her, and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead: 
Would start and tremble under her 
feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



[From Maud.] 
GO NOT, HAPPY DAY. 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Eosy is the West, 

Eosy is the South, 
Eoses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it through the West, 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leaj), beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the AVest is East, 

Blush it through the West. 
Eosy is the West, 

Eosy is the South, 
Eoses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 



\_From, Gtiinevere.] 
THE NUNS' SONG. 

Late, late, so late! and dark the 

night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 

now. 

No light had we: for that M-e do 

repent : 
And learning this, the bridegroom 

will relent. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 

now. 

No light: so late! and dark and 

chill the night; 
Oh, let us in, that we may find the 

light! 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 

now. 

Have we not heard the bride- 
groom is so sweet ? 

Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss his 
feet! 

No, no, too late! ye cannot enter 
now. 



582 



TENNYSON. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAH. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 

sighing: 
Toll ye tlie church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die : 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still ; he doth not move ; 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above; [love. 

He gave me a friend, and a true, true- 

And the new year will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go: 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us. 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the brim; 

A jollier year we shall not see; 

But though his eyes are waxing dim, 

And though his foes speak ill of him. 

He was a friend to me. 
Old year; you shall not die: 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die across the waste 
His son and heir doth lide post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend. 

And the new year, blithe and bold, 
my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro: 
The cricket chirps: the light burns 

low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock 

Shaki' hands before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 



His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 
- There's a new foot on the floor, my 
friend. 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXAXDllA. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the 

sea, 

Alexandra! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome 

of thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and 

of fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of 

the street! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet. 
Scatter the blossom under her feet! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flow- 
ers! 
Make music, O l)ird, in the new-bud- 
ded bowers! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that 

is ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! 
Clash, ye bells, in the meriy March 

air! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! 
Rush to the i-oof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into the stars for the land's 

desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dashed on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes 

the land, 



TENNYSON. 



583 



And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter, as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us, and make us 

your own, 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt or whatever we be. 
We are each all Dane in our welcome 

of thee, 

Alexandra! 



LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country 
heart 

For pastime, ere you went to 
town. 
At me you smiled, but un beguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your 
name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 
Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet 
sake 
A heart that doats on truer 
charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats of arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must 
find 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could 
love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head ; 
Nor thrice your branching limes have 
blown 
Since I beheld young Laurence 
dead. 
Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be : 
But tliere was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's 
view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 
She spake some certain truths of 
you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear: 
Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall: 
The guilt of blood is at your door: 
You changed a wholesome heart to 
gall. 
You held your course without re- 
morse* 
To make him trust his modest 
worth, 
And, last, yon fixed a vacant stare. 
And slew him with your noble 
birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 

The languid light of your proud eyes 
Is wearied of the rolling hours. 



584 



TENNYSON. 



In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth. 
But siclcening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time. 
You needs must play such i^ranks 
as these. 

('lara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league, 
HaJf a league onA\'ard, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns! " he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Ilode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die, 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turned in air. 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered : 



Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Right throughthe line theybroke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not. 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
Oh, the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade ! 

Noble six hundred ! 



BREAK, BREAK. BREAK. 

Bp.kak. break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea I 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy. 
That he shouts with his sister at 
play ! 
Oh, well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the 
bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill: 
But oh, for the touch of a vanished 
hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH. I* COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and 
leave 

Yon orange sunset waning slow: 
From fringes of the faded eve, 

O happy planet, eastward go: 
Till over thy dark shoulder glow, 

Thy silver-sister world, and rise 

To glass herself in dewy eyes 
That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forwai'd under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn. 
And round again to happy night. 



THE TEARS OF HE A VEN. 

Heavex weeps above the earth all 

night till morn. 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to 

weep. 
Because the earth hath made her state 

forlorn 
With self-wrought evil of unnum- 
bered years. 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor 

reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back 

hei' tears 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and 

deep. 
And showering down the glory of 

lightsome day, 
Smiles on the earth's worn brow to 

win her if she may. 



Come not when I am dead. 
To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head. 
And vex the unhappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry; 

But thou go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest: 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick 
of Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie: 

Go by, go by. 



CIRC U MS TANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor vil- 
lages [leas: 

Playing mad pranks along the healthy 

Two strangers meeting at a festival : 

Two lovers whispering by an orcliard 
wall : 

Two lives bound fast in one with 
golden ease: 

Two graves grass-green beside a gray 
church-to^^'er 

Waslied with still rains and daisy- 
blossomed ; 

Two children in one hamlet born and 
bred : [to houi*. 

So runs tire round of life from liour 



William Makepeace Thackeray. 



AT THE CHURCH-GATE. 



Although I enter not. 
Yet round about the spot, 

Ofttimes I hover; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of lier. 



The minster-bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout. 

And noise and humming; 
They've hushed the minster-bell, 
Tlie organ 'gins to swell, — 

She's coming, — coming! 



586 



THAXTEE. 



My lady comes at last, * 


I will not enter there. 


Timid ami stepping fast, 


To sully your pure prayer, 


And hastening hither. 


AVith thoughts unruly. 


With modest eyes downcast; 




She comes, — she's here, — she's past; 


But suffer me to pace 


May heaven go with lier! 


Round the forbidden place, 




lingering a minute. 


Kneel undisturhed, fair saint. 


Like outcast spirits who wait, 


Pour out your praise or plaint 


And s(!e, througli heaven's gate, 


Meekly and duly ; 


Angels within it. 



\) 



Celia Thaxter. 



FAREWELL. 



The crimson sunset faded into gray ; 
Upon tlie murmurous sea the twi- 
light fell ; 
The last warm breath of the de- 
licious day 
Passed with a nuite farewell. 

Above my head, in the soft purple 
sky, 
A wild note sounded like a shrill- 
voiced bell; 
Three gulls met, wheeled, and parted 
with a cry 
That seemed to say, '• Farewell!" 

I watched them ; one sailed east, and 
one soared west. 
And one went floating south ; while 
like a knell 
That mournful cry the empty sky 
possessed. 
"Farewell, farewell, farewell!" 

"Farewell!" I thought, it is the 
earth's one speecli; 
All human voices the sad chorus 
swell ; 
Though mighty love to heaven's high 
gate may reach. 
Yet must he say, "Farewell!" 

The rolling world is girdled with the 
sound. 
Perpetually breathed from all who 
dwell 
Upon its bosom, for no place is found 
Where is not lieard, " Farewell!" 



" Farewell, farewell ! " — from wave 
to wave 't is tossed, 
From wind to wind : earth has one 
tale to tell ; 
All other sounds are dulled and 
drowned and lost 
In this one cry, " Farewell! " 



DISCOXTEXT. 

Therk is no day so dark 
But through the murk some ray of 

hope may steal. 
Some blessed touch from heaven that 
we might feel, 
If we but chose to mark. 

We shut the portals fast, 
And tui-n the key and let no sunshine 

in; 
Yet to the worst despair that comes 
through sin 
God's light shall reach at last. 

We slight our daily joy. 
Make much of our vexations, thickly 

set 
Our path with thorns of discontent, 
and fret 
At our tine gold's alloy. 

Till bounteous heaven might frown 
At such ingratitude, and, turning, 

lay 
On our impatience, burdens that 
would weigh 
Our aching shoulders down. 



We shed too many tears, 
And sigh too sore, and yield us up to 

woe, 
As if God had not planned the way 
we go 
And counted out our years. 

Can we not be content, 
And lift our foreheads from the igno- 
ble dust 
Of these complaining lives, and wait 
with trust. 
Fulfilling heaven's intent ? 

Must we have wealth and power, 
Fame, beauty, all things ordered to 

our mind ? 
Nay, all these things leave happiness 
behind ! 
Accept the sun and shower, 

The humble joys that bless, 
Appealing to indifferent hearts and 

coki 
With delicate touch, striving to reach 
and hold 
Our hidden consciousness ; 

And see how everywhere 
Love comforts, strengthens, helps, 

and saves us all ; 
What opportunities of good befall 

To make life sweet and fair ! 



THE SUyniSE NEVER FAILED US 
YET. 

Upon the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully; 
From the far lonely spaces, slow 
Withdraws the wistful afterglow. 

So out of life the splendor dies; 
So darken all the happy skies; 
So gathers twilight, cold and stern; 
But overhead the planets burn; 

And up the east another day 
Shall cliase the bitter dark away ; 
What though our eyes with tears be 

wet ? 
The sunrise never failed us yet. 



The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light and hope and joy once 

more 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet! 



A MUSSEL-SHELL. 

Why art thou colored like the even- 
ing sky 

Sorrowing for sunset ? Lovely dost 
thou lie. 

Bared by the washing of- the eager 
brine. 

At the snow's motionless and wind- 
carved line. 

Cold stretch the snows, cold throng 
the Avaves, the wind 

Stings sharp, — an icy fire, a touch 
unkind, — 

And sighs as if with passion of re- 
gret. 

The while I mark thy tints of violet. 

O beauty strange ! O shape of perfect 

grace, 
Whereon the lovely waves of color 

trace 
The history of the years that passed 

thee by. 
And touched thee with the pathos of 

the sky! 

The sea shall crush thee; yea, the 
ponderous wave 

Up the loose beach shall grind, and 
scoop thy grave. 

Thou thought of God! What more 
than thou am I ? 

Both transient as the sad wind's pass- 
ing sigh. 



nE VEllIE. 

The white reflection of the sloop's 
great sail 
Sleeps trembling on the tide. 
In scarlet trim her crew lean o'er the 
rail, 
Lounging on either side. 



588 



THAXTER. 



Pale blue and streaked with pearl the 
waters lie, 
And glitter in the lieat; 
Tlie distance gatliers purple bloom 
where sky 
And glimmering coast-line meet. 

From tlie cove's curving rim of sandy 
gray 
The ebbing tide has drained, 
Where, mournful, in the dusk of 
yesterday 
The curlew's voice complained. 

Half lost in hot mirage the sails afar 
Lie dreaming, still and white; 

No wave breaks, no wind breathes, 
the peace to mar, 
Summer is at its height. 

How many thousand summers thus 
have shone 
Across the ocean waste. 
Passing in swift succession, one by 
one 
By the fierce winter chased ! 

The gray rocks blushing soft at dawn 
and eve, 
The green leaves at tlieir feet, 
The dreaming sails, the crying birds 
that grieve. 
Ever themselves repeat. 

And yet how dear and how forever 
fair 
Is Nature's friendly face. 
And how forever new and sweet and 
rare 
Each old familiar grace! 

What matters it that she will sing 
and smile 

When we are dead and still ? 
Let us be happy in her beauty while 

Our hearts have power to thrill. 

Let us rejoice in every moment 
bright. 
Grateful that it is ours ; 
Bask in her smiles with ever fresh 
delight. 
And gather all her flowers ; 



For presently we part: what will 
avail 
Her rosy fires of dawn. 
Her noontide pomps, to us, who fade 
and fail. 
Our hands from hers withdrawn ? 



LOVE SHALL SAVE US ALL. 

O PILGRIM, comes the niglit so fast? 

Let not the dark thy heart appall. 
Though loom the shadows vague and 
vast. 

For love shall save us all. 

There is no hope but this to see 
Through tears that gather fast, and 
fall ; 

Too great to perish love must be, 
And love shall save us all. 

Have patience with our loss and 
pain. 
Our troubled space of days so 
small ; 
We shall not reach our arms in vain, 
For love shall save us all. 

O ]^ilgrim, but a moment wait. 
And we shall hear our darlings 
call 

Beyond death's mute and awful gate, 
And love shall save us all ! 



TO A VIOLIN. 

What wondrous power from heaven 
upon thee wrought '? 
What prisoned Ariel within thee 
broods ? 
Marvel of human skill and human 
thought, 
Light as a dry leaf in the winter 
woods ! 

Thou mystic thing, all beautiful! 
What mind 
Conceived thee, what intelligence 
began 
And out of chaos thy rare shape de- 
signed. 
Thou delicate and perfect work of 
man ? 



THAXTEB. 



589 



Across my hands thou liest mute and 

still; 
Thou wilt not breathe to me thy 

secret fine; 
Thy matchless tones the eager air 

shall thrill 
To no entreaty or command of 

mine; 

But comes thy master, lo ! thou yield- 
est all : 
Passion and pathos, rapture and 
despair ; 
To the soul's need thy searching 
voice doth call 
In language exquisite beyond com- 
pare, 

Till into speech articulate at last 
Thou seem'st to break, and thy 
charmed listener hears 
Thee waking echoes of the vanished 
past. 
Touching the source of gladness 
and of tears ; 

And with bowed head he lets the 
sweet wave roll 
Across him, swayed by that weird 
power of thine, 
And reverence and wonder fill his 
soul 
That man's creation should be so 
divine. 



COURAGE. 

Because I hold it sinful to despond. 
And will not let the bitterness of 
life 
Blind me with burning tears, but 
look beyond 
Its tumult and its strife; 

Because I lift my head above the 
mist. 
Where the sun shines and the 
broad breezes blow, 
By every ray and every rain-drop 
kissed 
That God's love doth bestow; 



Think you I find no bitterness at all? 
No burden to be borne, like Chris- 
tian's pack ? 
Think you there are no ready tears 
to fall 
Because I keep them back ? 

Why should I hug life's ills with cold 
reserve, 
To curse myself and all who love 
me? Nay! 
A thousand times more good than I 
deserve 
God gives me every day. 

And in each one of these rebellious 
tears 
Kept bravely back, He makes a 
rainbow shine; 
Grateful I take His slightest gift, no 
fears 
Nor any doubts are mine. 

Dark skies must clear, and when the 
clouds are jiast. 
One golden day redeems a weary 
year; 
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at 
last 
Will sound his voice of cheer. 

Then vex me not with chiding. Let 
me be. 
I must be glad and grateful to the 
end; 
I grudge you not your cold and dark- 
ness, — me 
The powers of light befriend. 



IN KITTERY CHURCHYARD. 

Crushing the scarlet strawberries in 
the grass, 

I kneel to reael the slanting stone. 
Alas! 

How sharp a sorrow speaks ! A hun- 
dred years 

And more have vanished, with their 
sjniles and tears. 

Since here was laid, upon an April 
day, 

Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave 
away, — 



590 



THAXTER. 



A hundred years since here her lover 

stood 
Beside her grave iu such despairing 

mood, 
And yet from out the vanished past 

I hear 
His cry of anguish sounding deep 

and clear, 
And all my heart with pity melts, as 

though 
To-day's bright sun were looking on 

his woe. 
"Of such a wife, O righteous heav- 
en! bereft. 
What joy for me, what joy on earth 

IS left ? 
Still from my inmost soul the groans 

arise. 
Still flow the sorrows ceaseless from 

mine eyes." 
Alas, poor tortured soul ! I look 

away 
From the dark stone, — how brilliant 

shines the day! 
A low wall, over which the roses 

shed 
Their perfumed petals, shuts the 

quiet dead 
Apart a little, and the tiny square 
Stands in the broad and laughing 

field so fair, 
And gay green vines climb o'er the 

rough stone wall, ' 

And all about the wild-birds flit and 

call. 
And but a stone' s-throw southward. 

the blue sea 
Rolls sparkling in and sings inces- 
santly. 
Lovely as any dream the peaceful 

place, 
And scarc<;ly changed since on her 

gentle face 
For the last time on that sad April 

day 
He gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty 

lay [him 

liuried with her forever. Dull to 
Looked the bright world through 

eyes with tears so dim! 
" I soon shall follow the same dreary 

way 
That leads and opens to the coasts 

of day." 



His only hope ! But when slow time 

had dealt 
Firmly with him and kindly, and he 

felt 
The storm and stress of strong and 

piercing pain 
Yielding at last, and he grew calm 

again, 
Doubtless he found another mate 

before 
He followed Maiy to the happy 

shore I 
But none the less his grief appeals to 

me 
Who sit and listen to the singing sea 
This matchless summer day, beside 

the stone 
He made to echo with his bitter 

moan, 
And in my eyes I feel the foolish 

tears 
For bui'ied sorrow, dead a hundred 

years !_ 



HEETHOVEN. 

O SovERKKJN Master! stern and 
splendid power, 
That calmly dost both time and 
death defy; 
Lofty and lone as mountain peaks 
that tower. 
Leading our thoughts up to the 
eternal sky: 
Keeper of some divine, mysterious 
key. 
Raising us far above all human 
care, 
Unlocking awful gates of harmony 
To let heaven's light in on ithe 
world's despair; 
Smiter of solemn chords that still 
command 
Echoes in souls that suffer and as- 
pire, 
In the great moment while we hold 
thy hand, 
Baptized with pain and rapture, 
tears and lire, 
God lifts our saddened foreheads 

from the dust. 
The everlasting God, in whom we 
trust ! 



THOMSON. 



591 



THE SANDPIPER. 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I 
And fast I gather, l)it by bit. 

The scattered driftwood bleached 
and dry 
The wild waves reach their hands 
for it, [high, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs 
As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts in mistv shrouds' 

Stand out the white lighthouses 
high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach,— 

One little sandpiper and I. 



I watch him as he skims along 

Uttering his sweet and mournful 
cry; 
He starts not at my fitful song. 

Or flash of fluttering drapery; 
He has no thought of any wrong. 

He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
Stanch friends are Ave, well tried and 
strong. 

The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
When the loosed storm breaks furi- 
ously ? 

My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 
To what warm shelter canst thou 

fly'' 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the 
sky : 

For are we not God's children both. 
Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? 



James Thomson. 



[From The Seasons.] 
PURE AND HAPPY LOVE. 

But happy they! the happiest of 

their kind ! 
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one 

fate 
Their hearts, their fortunes, and 

their beings blend. 
'Tis not the coarser tie of human 

laws. 
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the 

mind, 
Tliat binds their peace, but harmony 

itself, 
Attuning all their passions into love; 
Where Friendship full-exerts her 

softest power. 
Perfect esteem enlivened by desire 
Ineffable, and sympathy of" soul; 
Thought meeting thought, and will 

preventing will, 
With boimdless confidence: for 

nought but love 
Can answer love, and render bliss 

secure. 



[From The Seasons.] 
THE TEMPEST. 

Unusual darkness broods; and 

growing, gains 
The full possession of the sky, sur- 
charged 
With wrathful vapor, from the secret 

beds. 
Where sleep the mineral generations, 

drawn. 
Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery 

spume 
Of fat bitumen, steaming on the day. 
With various-tinctured trains of 

latent flame. 
Pollute the sky, and in yon baleful 

cloud, 
A reddening gloom, a magazine of 

fate, 
Ferment; till, by the touch ethereal 

roused. 
The dash of clouds, or irritating 

war 
Of fighting winds, while all is calm 

below, 



592 



THOMSON. 



They furious spring. A boding si- 
lence reigns, 
Dread tlirougli tlie dun expanse ; save 

the dull sound 
That from the mountain, previous to 

the storm. 
Rolls o'er the muttering earth, dis- 
turbs the flood, 
And shakes the forest-leaf without a 

breath. 
Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial 

tribes 
Descend: the tempest-loving raven 

scarce 
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In 

rueful gaze 
The cattle stand, and on the scowling 

heavens 
Casta deploring eye; by man forsook. 
Who to tlie crowded cottage hies him 

fast. 
Or seeks the shelter of the downwai'd 

cave. 
'Tis listening fear, and dumb 

amazement all : 
When to the startled eye the sudden 

glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through 

the cloud ; 
And following slower, in explosion 

vast. 
The thunder raises his tremendous 

voice. 
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge 

of heaven. 
The tempest growls ; but as it nearer 

comes, 
And rolls its awful burden on the 

wind, 
The lightnings flash a larger curve, 

and more 
The noise astounds: till overhead a 

sheet 
Of livid flame discloses wide, then 

shuts, 
And opens wider; shuts and opens 

still 
Expansive, wrapping ether in a 

blaze. 
Follows the loosened aggravated roar, 
Enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal 

on peal 
Crushed horrible, convulsing heaven 

and earth. 



Down comes a deluge of sonorous 
hail. 

Or prone-desconding rain. Wide rent, 
the clouds 

Pour a whole flood ; and yet its flame 
unquenched. 

The unconquerable lightning strug- 
gles through. 

Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling 
balls, 

And fires the mountains with re- 
doubled rage. 



[From The StasonsJ] 
HARVEST-TIME. 

A SEEENER blue, 

With golden light enlivened, wide 

invests 
The happy world. Attempered suns 

arise. 
Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft 

through lucid clouds 
A pleasing calm; while broad and 

brown, below 
Extensive harvests hang the heavy 

head. 
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for 

not a gale 
Rolls its light billows o'er the bend- 
ing plain: 
A calm of ploity ! till the ruffled air 
Falls from its poise, and gives the 

breeze to blow. 
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky ; 
The clouds fly different; and the 

sudden sun 
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined 

field. 
And black by fits the shadows sweep 

along. 
A gaily-chequered heart-expanding 

view. 
Far as the circling eye can shoot 

around. 
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn. 
These are thy blessings, industry! 

rough power ! 
Whom labor still attends, and sweat, 

and pain ; 
Yet the kind source of every gentle 

art. 
And all the soft civility of life. 



THOMSON. 



598 



[Frnm The Seasons.] 
BIllDS, AND THEIR LOVES. 

When first the soul of love is sent 
abroad 

Warm through the vital air, and on 
the heart 

Harmonious seizes, the gay troops 
begin, 

In gallant thought, to plume the 
painted wing; 

And try again the long-forgotten 
strain. 

At first faint-warbled. But no sooner 
grows 

The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, 

Than, all alive, at once their joy o'er- 
flows 

In music uncoufined. Upsprings the 
lark. 

Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messen- 
ger of morn ; 

Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted 
sings 

Amid the dawning clouds, and from 
their haunts 

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every 
copse 

Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 

Bending with dewy moisture, o'er 
the heads 

Of the coy quiristers that lodgewithln. 

Are prodigal of harmony. The 
thrush 

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-con- 
tending throng 

Superior heard, run through the 
sweetest length 

Of notes; when listening Philomela 
deigns 

To let them joy, and purposes, in 
thought 

Elate, to make her night excel their 
day. 

The blackbird whistles from (he 
thorny brake; 

The mellow bullfinch answers from 
the grove : 

Nor are the linnets, o'er the flower- 
ing furze 

Poured out profusely, silent. .Joined 
to these 

Innumerous songsters, in the fresh- 
ening shade 



Of new-sprung leaves their modula- 
tions mix 

Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the 
daAv, 

And each harsh pipe, discordant 
heard alone. 

Aid the full concert: while the stock- 
dove breathes 

A melancholy murnuu- through the 
whole. 

'Tis love creates their melody, and all 

This waste of music is the voice of 
love, 

That even to birds, and beasts, the 
tender arts 

Of pleasing, teaches. Hence, the 
glossy kind 

Try every winning way inventive love 

Can dictate, and in courtship to their 
mates 

Pour forth their little souls. First, 
wide around. 

With distant awe, in airy rings they 
rove. 

Endeavoring by a thousand tricks to 
catch 

The cunning, conscious, half-averted 
glance 

Of their regardless charmer. Should 
she seem 

Softening the least appro vance to be- 
stow. 

Their colors burnish, and by hojie 
inspired, 

They brisk advance; then, on a suil- 
den struck. 

Retire disordered; then again ap- 
proach ; 

In fond rotation spread the spotted 
wing. 

And shiver every feather with desire. 



[From The Seafions.] 
DEATH AMID THE SXOIVS. 

Ai,i. Minter drives along the dark- 
ened air: 

In his own loose revolving fields, tlie 
swain 

Disastered stands; sees other hills 
ascend. 

Of unknown joyless brow; and other 
scenes 



594 



THOMSON. 



Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless 

plain ; 
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, 

hid 
Beneath the formless wild; but wan- 
ders on 
From hill to dale, still more and 

more astray ; 
lmi)atient flouncing tln'ough the 

drifted heaps, 
Stung with the tlioughts of home; 

the thoughts of home 
Rush on his nerves, and call their 

vigor fortli 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks 

his soul! 
What black despaii', wliat horror fills 

his heart! 
When for the dusky spot, which 

fancy feigned 
His tufted cottage rising through the 

snow, 
He meets the roughness of the middle 

waste. 
Far from the track and blest abode 

of man; 
While round him night, resistless, 

closes fast. 
And every tempest, howling o'er his 

head, [wild. 

Renders the savage wilderness more 
Then throng the busy shapes into 

his mind, 
Of covered pits, imfathomably deep, 
A dire descent! beyond the power of 

frost ; 
Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge. 
Smoothed up with snow; and, what 

is land, unknown. 
What water, of the still unfi-ozen 

spring. 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
Where the fresh fountain from the 

bottom boils. 
These check his fearful steps; and 

down he sinks, 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless 

drift. 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of 

death ; 
Mixed with the tender anguish na- 

tiu'e shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the 

dying man. 



His wife, his children, and his friends 

unseen. 
In vain for him the officious wife 

prepares 
The fire fair-blazing, and the vest- 
ment warm; 
In vain his little children, peeping 

out 
Into the mingling storm, demand 

their sire, 
With tears of artless innocence. 

Alas! 
Nor wife, nor cliildren more shall he 

behold. 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On 

every nerve 
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up 

sense ; 
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping 

cold. 
Lays him along the snows, a stiffened 

corse, 
Stretched out, and bleaching in the 

northern blast. 



[FromLiU'i-fi/.l 

IKDEPENDEXCE. 

Hail! Independence, hail! Heav- 
en's next best gift. 

To that of life and an immortal 
soul ! 

The life of life! that to the banquet 
high 

And sober meal gives taste; to the 
bowed roof 

Fair-dreamed repose, and to the cot- 
tage charms. 



\From Libcrtij.] 
A STATE'S NEED OF VIRTUE. 

.... Virtue! without thee, 
Theie is no ruling eye, no nerve, in 

states ; 
War has no vigor, and no safety, 

peace : 
E'en justice wai-ps to party, laws op- 

l)ress. 
Wide through the land their weak 

protection fails. 
First broke the balance, and then 

scorned the sword. 



THOMSON. 



;)!);■) 



[FroTn Liber-ti/.] 
THE ZEAL OF J'EUSECUTION. 

Mother of tortures! persecuting 

Zeal, 
High flashing in her hand the ready 

torch, 
Or poniard bathed in unbelieving 

blood; 
Hell's fiercest fiend! of saintly brow 

demure. 
Assuming a celestial serapli"s name. 
While she beneath the blasphemous 

pretence 
Of pleasing Parent Heaven, the 

Source of Love, 
Has wrought more horrors, more 

detested deeds, 
Than all the rest combined ! 



[ From Liberty.] 

THE APOLLO, AND VENUS OF 
MEDICI. 

Ax.L conquest-flushed, from pros- 
trate Python, came 

The (luivered god. In graceful act 
he stands. 

His arm extended with the slackened 
bow ; 

Light flows his easy robe, and fair 
displays 

A manly softened form. The bloom 
of gods 

Seems youthful o'er the beardless 
ciieek to wave: 

His features yet. lieroic ardor warms; 

And sweet subsiding to a native 
smile. 

Mixed with the joy elating conquest 
gives, 

A scattered frown exalts his match- 
less air. 

The Queen of Love arose, as from 

the deep 
.She sprung in all the melting pomp 

of charms. 
Bashful she bends, her well-taught 

look aside 
Turns in enchanting guise, where 

dubious mix 



Vain conscious beauty, a dissembled 

sense 
Of modest shame, and slippery looks 

of love. 
The gazer grows enamoured, and the 

stone. 
As if exulting in its conquest, smiles. 
So turned each limb, so swelled with 

softening art, 
That the deluded eye the marble 

doubts. 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 
REPOSE. 

What, what is virtue, but repose of 

mind, 
A pure ethereal calm, that knows ]io 

storm ; 
Above the reach of wild ambition's 

wind. 
Above those passions that this world 

deform, 
And torture man, a proud malignant 

Avorm? 
But here, instead, soft gales of pas- 
sion play, 
And gently stir the heart, thereby to 

form 
A quicker sense of joy; as breezes 

stray 
Across the enlivened skies, and make 

them still more gay. 

The best of men have ever loved re- 
pose: 
They hate to mingle in the filthy 

fray. 
Where the soul sours, and gradual 

rancor grows. 
Embittered more from peevish day to 

day. 
E'en those whom fame has lent her 

fairest ray. 
The most renowned of worthy wights 

of yore, 
From a base world at last have 

stolen away: 
So Scipio, to the soft Cuma^an shore 
Retiring, tasted joy he never knew 

before. 



596 



THOMSON. 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 
THE POLL Y OF HOARDIXG. 

On, grievous folly! to heap up estate, 
Losing the days you see beneath the 

sun ; 
When, sudden, comes blind unrelent- 
ing fate, 
And gives the untasted portion you 

have won 
With ruthless toil, and many a wretch 

undone. 
To those who mock you, gone to 

Pluto's reign. 
There with sad ghosts to pine, and 

shadows dun: 
But sure it is of vanities most vain. 
To toil for what you here untoiling 

may obtain. 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 
EXCESS TO BE AVOIDED. 

Bi'T not e'en pleasvire to excess is 

good : 
What most elates, then sinks the 

soul as low : 
When springtide joy pours in with 

copious tlooil. 
The higher still the exulting billows 

flow. 
The further back again they flagging 

go, 
And leave us grovelling on the dreai-y 
shore. 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 
NATUnE'S JOY INALIENABLE. 

I (ARE not, Fortxane, what you me 

deny: 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's 

grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the 

sky. 
Through which Aurora shows her 

brightening face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to 

trace 



The woods and lawns, by living 

stream, at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres 

brace. 
And I their toys to the great children 

leave: 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nouglit can 

me bereave. 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 

THE STATE OF THE WORLD HAD 
MEN LIVED AT EASE. 

Had unambitious mortals minded 

nought. 
But in loose joy their time to wear 

away ; 
Had they alone the lap of dalliance 

sought. 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads 

to lay, 
Rude nature's state had been our 

state to-day; 
No cities e'er their to wery fronts had 

raised, 
Xo arts had made us opulent and 

gay; 

With brother brutes the human race 

had grazed ; 
None e'er had soar'd to fame, none 

honored been, none praised. 

Great Homer's song had ne\er fired 

the breast 
To thirst of glory, and heroic 

deeds; 
Sweet Maro's muse, sunk in inglori- 
ous rest. 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian 

reeds : 
The wits of modern time had told 

their beads. 
The monkish legends been their only 

strains; 
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in 

weeds. 
Our Shakespeare strolled and laughed 

with Warwick swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser charm'd 

his Mulla's plains. 



THOMSON. 



597 



[From The Castle of Indolence.] 

HEALTH NECESSARY TO HAPPY 
LIFE. 

All! what avail the largest gifts of 

Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go 

amiss? 
How tasteless then whatever can be 

given? 
Health is the vital principle of 

bliss, 
And exercise of health. In proof of 

this. 
Behold the wretch, who slugs his life 

away. 
Soon swallowed in disease's sad 

abyss ; 
Willie he whom toil has braced, or 

manly play, 
As light as air each limb, each thought 

as clear as day. 

Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys 

of health ! 
Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the 

mind : 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing 

stealth. 
The temperate evening falls serene 

and kind. 
In health the wiser brutes true glad- 
ness find : 
See! how the younglings frisk along 

the meads. 
As May conies on, and wakes the 

balmy wind ; 
Kampant with life, their joy all joy 

exceeds ; 
Yet what but high-strung health this 

dancing pleasaunce breeds? 



COXTEXTMF.XT. 

If those, who live in shepherd's 
bower. 
Press not the rich and stately bed : 
The new-mown hay and breathing 
flower 
A softer couch beneath them 
spread. 



If those, who sit at shepherd's board, 
Soothe not their taste by wanton 
art ; 

They take what Nature's gifts afford. 
And take it with a cheerful heart. 

If those who drain the shepherd's 
bowl. 
No high and sparkling wines can 
boast. 
With wholesome cups they cheer the 
soul. 
And crown them with the village 
toast. 

If those who join in shepherd's sport. 
Gay dancing on the daisied ground. 

Have not the splendor of a court : 
Yet love adorns the merry round. 



RULE, BRITANXIA! 

When Britain first, at Heaven's 
command, 
Arose from out the azure main. 
This was the charter of the land, 
And guardian angels sung this 
strain: 
Rule, Britannia, I'ule the 

waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations, not so blessed as thee. 
Must, in their turns, to tyrants 
fall; 
While thou shalt flourish great and 
free. 
The dread and envy of them all. 
Ilule, etc. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
More dreadful from each foreign 
stroke ; 
As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
Rule, etc. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall 
tame : 
All their attempts to bend thee 
down 



598 



TIL TON. 



Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
But work tlieir woe, and thy re- 
nown. 
Rule, etc. 

To thee belongs the rural reign; 
Thy cities shall with commerce 
shine : 
All thine shall be the subject main : 
And every shore it circles thine. 
Rule, etc. 



The Muses, still with freedom found. 

Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
Blessed isle! with matchless beauty 
crowned, 
And manly hearts to guard the 
fair: 

Rule, Britannia, rule the 

waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 



Theodore Tilton. 



[From Thou nml /.] 
LOVE IN AGE. 

For us, the almond-tree 

Doth flourish now: 

Its whitest bloom is on our brow. 

Let others triumph as they may 

And wear their garlands gay 

Of olive, oak, or bay: 

Our crown of glory is, instead, 

The hoary head. 

Our threescore years and ten. 
That measure life to mortal men, 
Have lingered to a longer length 
By reason of oui- strength ; 
Yet, like a tale that hath been told, 
They all have passed, and now, be- 
hold! 
We verily are old ; — 

Yea, old like Abraham, when he went, 

AVith head down bent. 

And mantle rent, 

In dole for her who lay in death, 

And to the Sons of Heth 

The silver shekels gave 

For Mamre's gloomy cave. 

To be her grave; — 

Or, older still, like him 
Who, feeble not of limb, 
With eyes not dim, 
Upclimbed, with staff in hand. 
To where Mount Nebo cleft the sky, 
And looked and saw the Promised 
Land 



(Forbidden him from on high) 
Till, with an unrecorded cry, 
He laid him down to die. 

So too, for us, the end is nigh. 
Our mortal race is nearly run; 
Our earthly toil is nearly done! 
Ah, thou and I, 

Who in tbe grave so soon shall lie, 
Have little time to see the sun — 
So little it is nearly none! 

What then ? 

Amen ! 

All hail, my love, good cheer! 

Keep back thy unshed tear! 

Not thou nor I 

Shall mourn or sigh. 

Nay now, we twain — 

Old man, olil wife. 

The few days tliat remain — 

Let us make merry — let us laugh ! — 

For now at length we quaff 

The last, best wine of life, — 

The very last — the very best. 

The double cup of love and rest. 

What though the groaning world 

declare 
That life is but a load of care ? — 
A burden wearisome to bear ? — 
That as we journey down the years. 
The path is through a vale of tears ? — 
Yet we who have the burden borne, 
And travelled until travel-worn, 
Forget the weight upon the Ijack, 
Forsret the lou'^ and wearv track, 



And sit remembering here to-day 
How we were children at our play: — 

And half in doze, at idle ease, 
Before the hearth-tire's dying brands, 
With elbows on our trembling knees, 
With chin between our wrinkled 

liands, 
We sail unnavigable seas, — 
We roam impenetrable lands, — 
We leap from cUme to clime, — 
We conquer space and time. 

And, howsoever strange it seems, 

The dearest of our drowsy dreams 

Is of that billow-beaten shore 

Where, in our childish days of yore. 

We piled the salty sands 

Into a palace that still stands ! — 

Not where it first arose. 

Not where the wild wind blows, 

Not by the ocean's roar, — 

(For, long ago, those turrets fell 

Beneath that billowy swell), — 

But. down within the heart's deep 

core. 
Our tumbled tower we oft restore 
And ever build it o'er and o'er! 

We have one palace more, — 

Not made with hands, — 

Nor liave our feet yet entered at its 

door ! 
It lieth not behind us, but before! 

Dear love, our pilgrimage is thither 

tending. 
And there shall have its ending! 



Ah, tbough the rapturous vision 
Allures us to a Land Elysian. 
Yet aged are our feet, and slow. 
And not in haste to go. 

Life still hath many joys to give, 
Whereof tlie sweetest is — to live. 

'I'ben fear we death ? Not so 1 
Or do we tremble ? No! 
Nor do we even grieve! 
And yet a gentle sigh we heave. 
And unto Him who fixes fate, — 
Witbout whose sovereign leave, 



Down-whispered from on high, 
Not even the daisy dares to die, — 
We, jointly, thou ami L 
Implore a little longer date, — 
A little term of kind reprieve, — 
A little lease till by and by! 

May it be Heaven's decree, — 

Here, now, to tliee and me, — 

That, for a season still, 

Tiie eye shall not grow dim; 

That, for a few more days. 

The ear cease not to hear the hyiini 

Which the tongue utters to His 

praise ; 
That, for a little while. 
The heart faint not, nor fail; 
For even the wintry sun is bright, 
And clieering to our aged sight; 
Yea. though the frosts prevail, 
Yet even the icy air. 
The frozen plain, the leafiess wood 
fetill keep the earth as fresh and 

fair 
As when from Heaven, He called it 

good ! 

O final Summoner of the soul! 
Grant, of thy pitying grace, 
That, for a little longer space. 
The pitcher at the foimtain's rim 
Be shattered not, but still kept 

whole, — 
ytill overflowing at the brim! 
If but a year, if but a day, 
Thy lifted hand, O stay! 
Loose Thou not yet, O Lord, 
The silver cord ! 
Bi'eak Thou not yet the golden 

bowl ! 



[From Thou and I.] 
I'XDEU THE SOD. 

" Thott and I!" 
The voice no longer said; 
BtU. two white stones, instead, 
Above the twain, long dead. 
Still utter, each to each. 
The same familiar speech, 
"Tliouand I!" — 



600 



TIL TON. 



Not spoken to the passer-by, 
But just as if, beneath the grass. 
Deep under foot of all who pass, 
The sleeping dust should wake to say. 
Each to its fellow-clay, 
Each in the same old way, 
"Thou and l!" 

And each to either should reply, — 

(Tomb munniu'ing unto tomb. 

Stone answering unto stone, 

Yet not with sound of human moan. 

Nor breath of mortal sigh. 

But voiceless as the dead's dumb 

cry. ) — 
"Thou and I!" 

" The spirit and the body part, 
Yet love abideth, heart to heart. 

" O silent comrade of my rest. 
With hands here crossed upon thy 

breast, 
I know thee who thou art! 

marble brow. 

Here pillowed next to mine, 

1 know the soul divine 
That tenanted thy shrine ! 

" For, though above us, green and 
high, 
The yew-trees grow. 
And churchyard ravens fly. 
And mourners come and go. 
Yet thou and I, 

"Who dust to dust lie here below. 
Still one another know! 

" Yea, thee I know — it still is thou; 

And me thou know'st — it still is I; 

True lovers once, true lovers now! — 

The same old vow. 

The same old thrill, 

The same old love between us still ! 

" The gloomy grave hath frosts that 

kill. 
But love is chilled not with their 

chill. 

" Love's flame — 

Consuming, iniconsumed — 

In breasts that breathe — in hearts 

entombed — 
Is fed by life and death the same! 



"Love's spark 

Is brightest when lovt 



; house is dark! 



■' Love's shroud — 

That wraps its bosom round — 

Must crumble in the cliarnel ground, 

Till all the long white winding-sheet 

Shall drop to dust from head to feet: 

But love's strong ccrd. 

The eternal tie, 

The immortal bond that binds 

Love's twain immortal minds; — 

This silken knot 

Shall never I'ot — 

Nor moulder in the mouldy mound — 

Nor mildew — nor decay — 

Nor fall apart — nor drop away — 

Nor ever be unbound ! 

" Love's dust. 

Whatever grave it fill. 

Though buried deep, is deathless still ! 

Love hath no death, and cannot die! 

This love is ours, as here we lie, — 

Thou and I! " 



THE FOUl! SEASOXS. 

In the balmy April weather. 

My love, you know. 

When the corn began to grow, 
What walks we took together. 
What sighs we breathed together. 
What vows we pledged together. 

In the days of long ago! 

In the golden summer weather, 

My love, you know. 

When the mowers went to mow. 
What home we built together. 
What babes we watched together, 
W'hat plans we planned togetlier, 

\Vhile the skies were all aglow ! 

In the rainy autumn weather. 

My love, you know. 

When the winds began to blow. 
What tears we shed together. 
What mounds we heaped together. 
What hopes we lost together, 

When we laid our darlings low ! 



TIL TON. 



In the wild and wintry weather. 

My love, you know, 

With our heads as white 
snow, 
What prayers we pray together. 
What fears we share together. 
What Heaven we seek together. 

For our time has come to go! 



Sin MAliMADUKE'S MUSINGS. 

I WON a noble fame ; 

But, with a sudden frown. 
The people snatched my crown. 
And, in the mire, trod down 

My lofty name. 

I bore a bounteous purse ; 
And beggars by the way 
Then blessed me, day by day : 
But I, grown poor as they, 

Have now tlieir curse. 

I gained what men call friends : 
But now their love is hate, 
And I have learned, loo late. 
How mated minds unmate, 

And friendship ends. 

I clasped a woman's breast, — 
As if her heart, I knew. 
Or fancied, would be true, — 
Who proved, alas! she too! 

False like the rest. 

1 now am all bereft, — 

As when some tower doth fall. 
With battlement, and wall. 
And gate, and bridge, and all,— 

And nothing left. 

But I account it worth 

All pangs of fair hopes crossed - 
All loves and honors lost, — 
To gain the heavens, at cost 

Of losing earth. 

So, lest I be inclined 

To render ill for ill, — 
Henceforth in nie instil, 
O God, a sweet good will 

To all mankind. 



RECOMPENSE. 

The Temple of the Lord stood open 
wide, 

And worshippers went up from many 
lands. 

Who, kneeling at the altar, side by 
side. 

Made votive offerings with uplifted 
hands. 

Their gifts were gold, and frankin- 
cense, and myrrh. 

Then, with a lustrous gleam anil rap- 
turous stir, 

While all the people trembled and 
turned pale. 

There flew an angel to the altar-rail, 

Who, with anointed eyes, keen to 
discern. 

Gazed, noting all the kneelers, m ho 
they were. 

And what was each one's tribute to 
the Lord, — 

And, gift for gift, with sudden, swift 
return. 

Bestowed on every suppliant his re- 
ward. 

O mocking recompense! To one, a 
spear ! 

To many, each a thorn! To some a 
nail ! 

To all, a cross! But unto none a 
crown ! 

At last, they saw the angel disappeai-. 
Then, as their timid hearts shook oft" 

their fear, 
Some rose in anger, flung their treas- 
ures down. 
And cried, '"Such gifts from Heaven 

as these, we spui'u ! 
They are too cruel, and too keen to 

bear ! 
They arc too grievous for a human 

breast ! 
Heaven sends us heartache, misery, 

and despair! 
We knelt for blessing, but we rise un- 

blest ! 
If Heaven so mock us, Ave will cease 

to pray!" 
They left the altar, and they went 

their way ; 
But their blaspheming hearts were 

then self-torn 



6(12 



TRENCH. 



Far more by pride, and heaven-defy- 
ing scorn, 

'I'lian pierced before by nail, or spear, 
or tliorn I 

A few (not many!) with their brows 

down bent, 
(Jave tlianivs for each sharp gift that 

Heaven liad sent, — 
And eacli embraced his separate pain 

and sting. 
As if it were some sweet and pleasant 

thing, — 
And each his cross, with joyful tears, 

did take. 
To bear it for the great Cross-bearer's 

sake. 

Then lo! as from the Temple forth 
they went. 

Their bleeding bosoms, though with 
anguish rent. 

Had, spite of all their pain ! — a sweet 
content; 

For on each brow, though not to mor- 
tal sight. 

The vanished angel left a croM-n of 
light! 



THE TWO LADDERS. 

BKNioirn;() in my pilgrimage, — 
alone, — 
And footsore — (for the path to 
heaven grew steep, ) — 
I looked for Jacob's pillow of a stone. 
In hope of Jacob's vision in my 
sleep. 
Then, in my dream, whereof 1 (piake 
to tel'l,— 
Not up from earth to heaven, but, 
oh, sad sight! 
The ladder was let down from earth 
to hell !— 
Whereon, ascending from the deep 

abyss. 
Came fiery spirits who, with dismal 
hiss. 
Made woeful clamor of their lost de- 
light. 
And stung my eyelids open, till, in 

fright, 
I caught my staff, and at the dead of 
night, 
I, who toward heaven and peace 

had halted so. 
AVas i!eet of foot to flee from hell 
and woe! 



Richard Chenevix Trench. 

THliKE SONNETS ON PRAYER 



liORD, what a change within us one 

short hour 
Spent in Thy presence will prevail to 

make — 
What heavy burdens from our bosoms 

take. 
What parched grounds refresh, as 

with a shower! 
We kneel, and all around us seems to 

lower; 
We rise, and all, the distant and the 

near, 
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave 

and clear; 
We kneel how weak, we rise how full 

of power! 
Why, therefore, should we do our- 
selves this wrong, 



Or others — that we are not always 

strong; 
That we are ever overborne with 

care ; 
That we should ever weak or heaiL- 

less be. 
Anxious or troubled, when with us is 

prayer. 
And joy, and strength, and courage, 

aie with Thee ? 



A GAIJDKN so well watered before 

morn 
Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's 

blaze. 
Down beating with unmitigated rays, 
Nor arid winds from scorching places 

borne, 



Shall quite prevail to make it bare 

and shorn 
Of its green beauty — shall not quite 

prevail 
That all its morning freshness sliall 

exliale, 
Till evening and the evening dews 

return — 
A blessing such as this our hearts 

niight reap, 
The freshness of the garden they 

might share, 
Through the long day a heavenly 

freshness keep. 
If, knowing how the day and the 

day's glare 
Must beat upon them, we would 

largely steep 
And water them betimes with dews 

of prayer. 



WiiKx hearts are full of yearning 

tenderness. 
For the loved absent, whom we can 

not reach — 
By deed or token, gesture or kind 

speech. 
The spirit's true affection to express; 
When hearts are full of innermost 

distress, |by, 

And we are doomed to stand inactive 
Watching the soul's or body's agony. 
Which human effort helps not to 

make less — 
Then like a cup capacious to contain 
The overflowings of the heart, is 

prayer: 
The longing of the soul is satisfied, 
The keenest darts of anguish blunted 

are; 
And, tbough we can not cease to 

yearn or grieve, 
Yet we have learned in patience to 

abide. 



LOllI), MAXY TIMES I AM A irEAni'. 

J^oRD, many times I am aweary 
quite 
Of mine own self, my sin, my 
vanity — 
Yet be not Thou, or 1 am lost out- 
right,— 
Weary of me. 



And hate against myself I often bear. 
And enter with myself in fierce 
debate : 
Take Thou my part against myself, 
nor share 
In that just hate! 

Best friends might loathe us, if what 
tilings perverse 
We know of our own selves, they 
also knew: 
Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knuw- 
est worse 
Shouldst loathe us too ! 



[From Lines to a Frietul.] 
WEAK COXSOLA TIOX. 

On, miserable comfort! Loss is loss, 
And death is death; and after all is 

done — 
After the flowers are scattered on the 

tomb, 
After the singing of the sweetest 

dirge — 
The mourner, with his heart uncom- 

forted, 
Retm-ning to his solitary home. 
Thinks with himself, if any one had 

aught 
Of stronger consolation, lie should 

speak; 
If not, 'twere best for ever to liold 

peace. 
And not to mock him with vain 

words like these. 



SADXESS BOnX OF BEAUTY. 

All beautiful things bring sadness, 

nor alone 
Music, whereof that wisest poet 

spake ; * 
Because in us keen longings they 

awake 
After the good for which we pinc^ and 

groan. 
From which exiled we make continual 

moan, 

♦ I am never merry when I hear sweet 

music. — SHAKliSPKAKK. 



6U4 



TRENCH. 



Till once again we may our spirits 

slake 
At those clear streams, which man 

did first forsake. 
When he would dig for fountains of 

liis own. 
All beauty makes us sad, yet not in 

vain — 
For who would be ungracious to re- 
fuse. 
Or not to use, this sadness without 

pain, 
Whether it flows upon us from the 

hues 
Of sunset, from the time of stars 

and dews, 
From the clear sky, or waters pure of 

stain '.' 



THE LENT JEWELS. 

In schools of wisdom all the day was 

spent : 
His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward 

bent. 
With homeward thoughts, which 

dwelt upon the wife 
And two fair child i-en who consoled 

his life. 
She, meeting at the thresliold, led 

him in, 
And with these words preventing, 

did begin: — 
" Ever rejoicing at your wished re- 
turn. 
Yet am 1 most so now: for since this 

morn 
1 liave been much perplexed and 

sorely tried 
Upon one point which you shall now 

decide. 
Some years ago, a friend into my 

care 
Some jewels gave — rich, precious 

gems they were ; 
But having given them in my cliarge. 

this friend 
Did afterward nor come for them, nor 

send. 
But left them in ray keeping for so 

long. 
That now it almost seems to me a 

wrong 



That he should suddenly arrive to- 
day, 

To take those jewels, which he left, 
away. 

What think you? Shall I freely 
yield them back. 

And with no murmuring ? — so hence- 
forth to lack 

Those gems myself, which I had 
learned to see 

Almost as mine for ever, mine in 
fee." 

"What question can be here? 
Your own true heait 

Must neeils advise you of the only 
part : 

That may be claimed again which 
was but lent. 

And should be yielded with no dis- 
content. 

Nor surely can we find herein a 
wrong. 

That it wasleft us to enjoy it long." 

" Good is the word," she answered ; 

" may we now 

And evermore that it is good allow!" 

And, rising, to an inner chamber led, 

And thereshe showed him, stretched 

upon one bed, 
Two children pale: and he the jewels 

knew, 
AVhich God had lent him, and re- 
sumed anew. 



PA TIEXCE. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your 

ear against the earth ; 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ 

o' tlie seed has birth — 
How noiselessly and gently it up- 

lieaves its little way. 
Till it parts the scarcely broken 

ground, and the blade stands 

up in the day. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! The 
germs of mighty thought 

Must have their silent imdergrowth, 
must luiderground be wrought; 



TRENCH. 



605 



But as sure as there's a power that 
makes the grass appear, 

Our land shall he green with liberty, 
the blade-time shall be here. 

Be patient! oh, be patient — go and 

watch the wheat ears grow — 
So imperceptibly that ye can mark 

nor change nor throe — 
Day after day, day after day, till the 

ear is fully grown, 
And then again day after day, till the 

ripened field is brown. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! — though 

yet our hopes are green, 
The harvest-fields of freedom sliall 

be crowned with sunny sheen. 
Be ripening! be ripening! — mature 

your silent way. 
Till the whole broad land is tonguetl 

with tire on freedom's harvest 

day! 



HAPPINESS IN LITTLE TIHXGS 
OF THE PRESENT. 

We live not in our moments or our 

years : 
The present we fling from us like the 

rind 
Of some sweet future, which we after 

find 
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with 

fears. 
And water it beforehand with our 

tears — 
Vain tears for that which never may 

arrive ; 
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought 

to live. 
Neglected, or imheeded, disappears. 
Wiser it were to welcome and make 

ours 
Whate'er of good, though small, the 

present brings — 
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of 

birds, and flowers. 
With a child's pure delight in little 

things; 
And of the griefs unborn to rest se- 
cure. 
Knowing that mercy ever will endure. 



THE ERMINE. 

To miry places me the hunters drive. 
Where I my robes of purest white 
must stain; 
Then yield I, nor for life will longer 
strive. 
For spotless death, ere spotted life, 
is gain. 



THE BEES. 

We light on fruits and flowers, and 
purest things; 
For if on carcases or aught vmclean. 
When homeward we returned, with 
mortal stings 
Would slay us the keen watchers 
round our queen. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Leaning my bosom on a pointetl 
thorn, 
I bleed, and bleeding sing my 
sweetest strain: 
For sweetest songs of saddest liearts 
are born, 
And who may here dissever love 
and pain ? 



THE SNAKE. 

Myself I force some narrowest pas- 
sage through, 
Leaving my old and wrinkled skin 
behind, 
And issuing forth in splendor of my 
new : 
Hard entrance into life all creatures 
find. 



THE TIGER. 

Hearing sweet music, as in fell de- 
spite, 
Himself the tiger doth in pieces 
tear : 
The melody of other men's delight 
There are, alas! who can as "little 
bear. 



6UG 



TRENCH. 



THE DIAMOND. 

1 ONLY polished am in mine own 
dust — 
Naiiglit else against my hardness 
will prevail: 
And thou, O man, in thine own 
sufferings must 
He polished: every meaner art will 
fail. 



FALLING STAIiS. 

Angels are we, that, once from 
heaven exiled, 
Would climb its crystal battlements 
again; 
But have their keen-eyed watchers 
not beguiled. 
Hurled by their glittering lances 
back amain. 



HA HMOS AS. 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, 
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won. 

Ilarmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, 

Captive overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die. 

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst; 
(iive me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!" 

In his hanil he took the goblet, but awhile the drauglit forbore. 
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen to explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest — for around him angry foes 
With a hedge of naked v,eapons did that lonely man enclose. 

"^ Ikit what fear'st thou ? " cried the caliph ; — "is it, friend, a secret blow ? 
Fear it not! — our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know. 

" Tliou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before 
Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this reprieve is thine — no more!" 

C^uick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, 
And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand. 

" Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup 

I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!" 

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred — 
Then exclaimed : " For ever sacred nmst remain a monarch's word. 



" Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: 
Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid thee drink and live!" 



TROWBRIDGE. 



mi 



John Townsend Trowbridge. 



THE NAME /A' THE HAHK. 



The self of so long ago, 

And the self I struggle to know, — 
I sometimes think we are two, — or are w« shadows of one ? 

To-day the shadow 1 am 

Keturns in the sweet summer calm 
To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. 

Once more in the dewy morn 

I came through the whispering corn ; 
Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were l)lo\vn; 

The ribboned and tasselled grass 

Leaned over the flattering glass, 
And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. 

To the gray old birch I came, 

Where 1 whittled my school-boy name: 
The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, 

The blackbirds down among 

The alders noisily sung. 
And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. 

I came, remembering well 

How my little shadow fell, 
As 1 painfully reached and wrote to leave to the futiue a sign : 

There, stooping a little, I found 

A half-healed, curious wound. 
An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine! 

Then the wise old boughs overhead 

Took counsel together, and said, — 
And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,- 

" He is busily carving a name 

In the tough old wrinkles of fame; 
But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!" 

Sadly I pondered awhile. 

Then I lifted my soul with a smile. 
And 1 said " Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we. 

Still hurting ourselves with the knife. 

As we toil kt the letters of life, 
Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree." 

And now by the rivulet's brink 

I leisurely saunter, and think 
How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, 

If then the real I am 

Descend from the heavenly calm. 
To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sim. 



t)08 



TROWBRIDGE. 



THE RESTORED PICTURE. 

In later years, veiling its iniblest face 

In a most loatlisome place, 
The cheap adornment of a house of 
shame, 
It hung, till, gnawed away 
By tooth of slow decay, 
It fell, and parted from its moulder- 
ing frame. 

The rotting canvas, faintly smiling 
still. 
From worldly puff and frill, 
Its ghastly smile of coquetry and 
pride, 
Crumpling its faded charms 
And yellow jewelled arms. 
Mere rubbisli now, was rudely cast 
aside. 

The shadow of a Genius crossed the 
gate: 
He, slcilled to re-create 
In old and ruined paintings their lost 
soul 
And beauty. — one who knew 
Tlie Master's touch by true, 
Swift instinct, as the needle Ivuows 
the pole, — 

Looked on it, and straightway his 
searching eyes 
Saw through its coarse disguise 
Of vulgar paint and grime and var- 
nish stain 
The Art that slept beneath. — 
A chrysalis in its sheath. 
That waited to be waked to life 
again. 

Upon enduring canvas to renew 
Each wondrous trait and hue, — 

This is the miracle, his chosen task! 
He bears it to his house. 
And there from lips and brows 

With loving touch removes their alien 
mask. 

For so on its perfection time had laid 

An early mellowing shade; 
Then hands unskilled," each seeking 
to Impart 
Fresh tints to form and face. 
With some more modern grace, 
Had buried quite the mighty Master's 
Art. 



First, razed from the divine original, 

Brow, cheek, and lid, went all 
That outer shape of worldliuess; 
when, lo! 
Beneath the varnished crust 
Of long-embed.ded dust 
A fairer face appears, emerging 
slow, — 

The features of a simple sliepherd- 
ess! 
Pure eyes, and golden tress. 
And, lastly, crook in hand. But 
deeper still 
The Master's work lies hid; 
And still through lip and lid 
Works the Restorer with unsparing 
skill. 

Behold, at length, in tender light re- 
vealed. 
The soul so long concealed ! 
All heavenly faint at first, then softly 
bright. 
As smiles the young-eyed Dawn 
AVhen darkness is withdrawn, 
A shining angel breaks upon the 
sightl 

Restored, perfected, after the divine 

Imperishable design, 
Lo, now! that once desi^ised and out- 
cast thing 
Holds its true place among 
The fairest pictiu'es hung 
In the higli palace of our Lord the 
King! 



M/OiriXTER. 

The speckled sky is dim with snow. 
The light Hakes falter and fall 
slow; 
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale. 
Silently drops a silvery veil; 
And ail the valley is shut in 
By flickering curtains gray and thin. 

I watch the slow flakes as they fall 
On bank and brier and broken wall; 
Over the orchard, waste and brown. 
All noiselessly they settle down, 



TROWBRIDGE. 



609 



Tipping the apple-boughs, and each 
Light quivering twig of pUuu and 
peach. 

On turf and curb and bower-roof 
Tlie snow storm spreads its ivory 

woof; 
It paves with pearl tlie garden walk; 
And lovingly round tattered stalk 
And shivering stem its magic weaves 
A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 

The hooded beehive, small and low. 
Stands like a maiden in the snow; 
And the old door-slab is half hid 
Under an alabaster lid. 

All day it snows : the sheeted post 
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; 
All day the blasted oak has stood 
A muffled wizard of the wood ; 
(rarlantl and airy cap adorn 
The sumach and the wayside thorn. 
And clustering spangles lodge and 

shine 
In the dark tresses of the pine. 

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, 
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; 
In surplice white the cedar stands, 
And blesses him with priestly hands. 

Still cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree: 
But in my inmost ear is heard 
The nnisic of a holier bird; 
And heavenly thoughts, as soft and 

white 
As snow-flakes, on my soul alight. 
Clothing with love my lonely heart. 
Healing with peace each bruised 

part. 
Till all my being seems to be 
Transfigured by their purity. 



MIDSUMMER. 

Becalmed along the azure sky, 
The argosies of cloudland lie, 
Whose shores, with many a shining 

rift, 
Far off their jjearl-white peaks uplift. 



Through all the long midsummer- 
day 

The meadow-sides are sweet with 
bay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 

Just where the field and forest 
meet, — 

Where grow the pine-trees tall and 
bland. 

The ancient oaks austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 

The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers, as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white- 
sleeved row. 

With even stroke their scythes they 
swing. 

In tune their merry whetstones ring. 

Behind the nimble youngsters run. 

And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 

The cattle graze, while, warm and 
still. 

Slopes the broad pasture, basks the 
hill. 

And bright, where summer breezes 
break. 

The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 
Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 
Quickly before me runs the quail, 
Iler chickens skulk behind the rail; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
Sweet woodland music sinks and 

swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells. 
The swarming insects drone and 

hum. 
The partridge beats his throbbing 

drum, 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 
And chatters in his leafy house. 
The oriole flashes by ; and look ! 
Into the mirror of the brook, 
Where the vain bluebird trims his 

coat. 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly. 
The down of peace descends on me. 
O, tills is peace! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read: 



610 



TROWBRIDGE. 



A dear Companion here abides ; 
Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 
The holy silence is His Voice: 
I lie and listen, and rejoice. 



REAL ESTATE. 

The pleasant gromids are greenly 

turfed and graded ; 
A sturdy porter waiteth at the 

gate; 
The graceful avenues, serenely 

shaded. 
And curving paths, are interlaced 

and braiiled 
In many a maze around my fair 

estate. 

Here bloom the early hyacinth, and 
clover 
And amaranth and myrtle wreathe 
the ground ; 

The pensive lily leans her pale cheek 
over ; 

And hither comes the bee, light- 
hearted rover, 

Wooing the sweet-breathed flowers 
with soothing sound. 

Entwining, in their manifold digres- 
sions, 
Lands of my neighbors, wind these 
peaceful ways. 

The masters, coming to their calm 
possessions, 

Followed in solemn state by long pro- 
cessions, 
Make quiet journeys these still 
summer days. 

This is my freehold! Elms and fringy 
larches. 
Maples and pines, and stately firs 
of Norway, 

Build round me tlieir green pyramids 
and arches ; 

Sweetly the robin sings, while slowly 
marches 
The stately pageant past my ver- 
dant doorway. 



Oh, sweetly sing the robin and the 

sparrow ! 
But the pale tenant very silent 

rides. 
A low green roof receiveth him; — so 

narrow 
His hollow tenement, a schoolboy's 

arrow 
Might span the space betwixt its 

grassy sides. 

The flowers around him ring their 
wind-swung chalices, 
A great bell tolls the pageant's slow 
advance. 

The poor alike, and lords of parks 
and palaces. 

From all their busy schemes, their 
fears and fallacies. 
Find here their rest and sure inher- 
itance. 

No more hath Caesar or Sardanapa- 

lus! 
Of all our wide dominions, soon or 

late. 
Only a fathom's space can aught 

avail us; 
This is the heritage that shall not 

fail us: 
Here man at last comes to his Real 

Estate. 

" Secure to him and to his heirs for- 
ever" ! 
Nor wealth nor want shall vex his 
spirit more. 

Treasures of hope and love and high 
endeavor 

Follow their blest proprietor; but 
never 
Could pomp or riches pass this lit- 
tle door. 

Flatterers attend him, but alone he 
enters, — 
Shakes off the dust of earth, no 
more to roam. 

His trial ended, sealed his soul's in- 
dentures, 

The wanderer, weai-y from his long 
adventures. 
Beholds the peace of his eternal 
home. 



TROWBRIDGE. 



611 



Lo, more than life, Man's great Estate 
comprises ! 
Wliile for tlie eartlily corner of his 
mansion 
A little nook in shady Time suffices, 
The rainbow-pillared heavenly roof 
arises 
Ethereal in limitless expansion! 



THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUN- 
TAIN. 

All round the lake the wet woods 
shake 
From drooping boughs their show- 
ers of pearl ; 
From floating skiff to towering cliff 

The rising vapors part and curl. 
The west-wind stirs among the firs 
High up the mountain side emerg- 
ing: 
The liglit illumes a thousand plumes 
Through billowy banners round 
them surging. 

A glory smites the craggy heights : 

And in a halo of the haze. 
Flushed with faint gold, far up, behold 

That mighty face, that stony gaze! 
In the wild sky upborne so high 

Above us perishable creatures, 
Confronting Time witli those sub- 
lime, 

Impassive, adamantine, features. 

Thou beaked and bald high front, 
miscalled 
The profile of a human face! 
No kin art thou, O Titan brow. 

To puny man's ephemeral race. 
The groaning earth to thee gave 
birth, — 
Throes and convulsions of the 
planet ; 
Lonely uprose, in grand repose. 
Those eighty feet of facial granite. 

Here long, while vast, slow ages 
passed. 
Thine eyes (if eyes be thine) beheld 
But solitudes of crags and woods. 
Where eagles screamed and pan- 
thers yelled. 



Before the fires of our pale sires 
In the first log-built cabin twinkled, 

Or red men came for fish and game. 
That scalp was scarred, that face 
was wrinkled. 

We may not know how long ago 
That ancient countenance was 
young; 
Thy sovereign brow was seamed as 
now 
When Moses wrote and Homer 
sung. 
Empires and states it antedates, 
And wars, and arts, and crime, and 
glory ; 
In that dim morn \^hen man was 
born 
Thy head with centuries was 
hoary. 

Thou lonely one ! nor frost, nor sun, 
Nor tempest leaves on thee its 
trace ; 
The stormy years are but as tears 
That pass from thy unchanging 
face. 
With unconcern as grand and stern. 
Those features viewed, which now 
survey us, 
A green world rise from seas of ice. 
And order come from mud and 
chaos. 

Canst thou not tell what then befell? 
What forces moved, or fast or 
slow ; 
How grew the hills; what heats, what 
chills, 
What strange, dim life, so long ago? 
High-visaged peak, wilt thou not 
speak? 
One word for all our learned wran- 
gle! 
What earthquakes shaped, what gla- 
ciers scraped. 
That nose, and gave the chin its 
angle? 

Our pygmy thought to thee is naught, 
Our petty questionings are vain ; 

In i^ts great trance thy countenance 
Knows not compassion nor dis- 
dain. 



612 



TROWBRIDGE. 



With far-off hum we go and come, 

The gay, the grave, the busy-idle; 
And all things done, to thee are one, 
Ahke the burial and the bridal. 

Thy permanence, long ages hence, 
Will mock the pride of mortals 
still. 
Keturning springs, with songs and 
wings I fill ; 

And fragrance, shall these valleys 
The free winds blow, fall rain or 
snow. 
The mountains brim their crystal 
breakers ; 
Still come and go, still ebb and flow. 
The summer tides of pleasure-seek- 
ers. 

The dawns shall gild the peaks where 
build 
The eagles, many a future pair; 
The gray scud lag on wood and crag, 

Dissolving in the purple air; 
The sunlight gleam on lake and 
stream. 
Boughs wave, storms break, and 
still at even 
All glorious hues the world suffuse. 
Heaven mantle earth, earth melt in 
heaven ! 

Nations shall pass like summer's 
grass, 
And times unborn grow old and 
change ; 
New governments and great events 
Shall rise, and science new and 
strange ; 
Yet will thy gaze confront the days 

With its eternal calm and patience, 

The evening red still light thy head. 

Above tliee burn the constellations. 

silent speech, that well can teach 
The little worth of woi-ds or fame ! 

1 go my way, but thou wilt stay 

While future millions pass the 
same: 
But what is this I seem to miss ? 

Those features fall into confusion ! 
A further pace — where was that 
face? 
The veriest fugitive illusion ! 



Gray eidolon ! so quickly gone. 
When eyes that make thee onward 
move; 
Whose vast pretence of permanence 

A little progress can disprove! 
Like some huge wraith of human 
faith 
That to the mind takes form and 
measure ; 
Grim monolith of creed or myth. 
Outlined against the eternal azure ! 

O Titan, how dislimned art thou! 

A withered cliff is all we see; 
That giant nose, that grand repose, 

Have in a moment ceased to be; 
Or still depend on lines that blend, 

On merging shapes, and sight, and 
distance, 
And in the mind alone can find 

Imaginary brief existence ! 



STANZAS FROM ''SERVICE." 

Well might red shame my cheek 
consume ! 

service slighted! 

Bride of Paradise, to whom 

1 long was plighted ! 

Do I with burning liiis profess 

To serve thee wliolly, 
Yet labor less for blessedness 

Than fools for folly ? 

Tbe wary worldling spread his toils 

Whilst I was sleepin?; 
The wakeful miser locked his spoils, 

Keen vigils keeping: 

1 loosed the latches of my soul 

To pleading Pleasure, 
Who stayed one little hour, and stole 
My heavenly treasure. 

A friend for friend's sake will endure 

Sharp provocations ; 
And knaves are cunning to secure, 

By cringing patience, 
And smiles upon a smarting cheek. 

Some dear advantage. — 
Swathing their grievances in meek 

Submission's bandage. 



TROWBRIDOE. 



613 



Yet for thy sake I will not take 

One drop of trial, 
But raise rebellious hands to break 

The bitter vial. 
At hardship's surly-visaged churl 

My spirit sallies; 
And melts, O Peace! thy priceless 
pearl 

In passion's chalice. 

Yet never quite, in darkest night, 

Was I forsaken: 
DowTi trickles still some starry rill 

My heart to waken. 



O Love Divine! could I resign 

This changeful spirit 
To walk thy ways, what wealth of 
grace 

Migiit I inherit ! 

If one poor flower of thanks to thee 

Be truly given. 
All night thou snowest down to me 

Lilies of heaven ! 
One task of human love fulfilled 

Thy glimpses tender, 
My days of lonely labor gild, 

With gleams of splendor! 



MY COMRADE AXD I. 

We two have grown up so divinely together, 

Flower within flower from seed within seed, 
The sagest philosopher cannot say whether 

His being or mine was first called and decreed. 
In the life before birth, by inscrutable ties. 

We were linked each to each ; I am bound up in him ; 
He sickens, I languish; without me, he dies; 

I am life of his life, he is limb of my limb. 

Twin babes from one cradle, I tottered about with him, 

Chased the bright butterflies, singing, a boy with him; 
Still as a man I am borne in and out with him. 

Sup with him, sleep with him, suffer, enjoy with him. 
Faithful companion, me long he has carried 

Unseen in his bosom, a lamp to his feet; 
More near than a bridegroom, to him I am married, 

As light in the sunbeam is wedded to heat. 



If my beam be withdrawn he is senseless and blind; 

I am sight to his vision, I hear with his ears; 
His the man^ellous brain, I the masterful mind; 

I laugh with his laughter, and weep Avith his tears 
So well that the ignorant deem us but one : 

They see but one shape and they name us one name. 
O pliant accomplice! what deeds we have done, 

Thus banded together for glory or shame. 

When evil waylays us, and i^assion surprises, 

And we are too feeble to strive or to fly. 
When hunger compels or when pleasure entices. 

Which most is the sinner, my comrade or I ? 
And when over perils and ]iains and temptations 

I triumph, where still I should falter and faint. 
But for him, iron-nerved for heroical patience. 

Whose then is the virtue, and which is the saint ? 



614 



TUPPER. 



Am I the one sinner ? of honors sole claimant 

For actions which only we two can perform '? 
Am I the true creatui'e, and thou but the raiment '? 

Thou magical luantle, all vital and warm, 
Wrapped about me, a screen from the rough winds of Time, 

(^f texture so flexile to feature and gesture ! 
Can ever I part from thee ? Is there a clime 

Where Life needeth not this terrestrial vesture '? 

When comes the sad summons to sever the sweet 

Subtle tie that unites us, and tremulous, fearful. 
I feel thy loosed fetters depart from my feet; 

\Vhen friends gather round us, pale-visaged and tearful, 
Beweep and bewail thee, thou fair earthly prison! 

And kiss thy cold doors, for thy inmate mistaken ; 
Their eyes seeing not the freed captive, arisen 

From thy trammels unclasped and thy shackles downshakeu; 

Oh, then shall I linger, reluctant to break 

The dear sensitive chains that about me have grown ? 

And all this bright world, can I bear to forsake " 
Its embosoming beauty and love, and alone 

Journey on to I know not what regions untried ? 
Exists there, beyond the dim cloud-rack of death. 

Such life as enchants us ? O skies arched and wide! 

delicate senses! O exquisite breath! 

Ah, tenderly, tenderly over thee hovering, 

1 shall look down on thee, empty and cloven. 
Pale mould of my being! — thou visible covering 

Wherefroni my invisible raiment is woven. 
Though sad be the passage, nor i^ain shall appall me, 

Nor parting, assured, wheresoever I range 
The glad fields of existence that naught can befall me 

That is not still beautiful, blessed and strange. 



Martin Farquhar Tupper* 

iFrom Self-Acqua in tan cr . ] 
ILL-CHOSEN PURSUITS. 

The blind at an easel, the palsied with a graver, the halt making for the goal, 

The deaf ear tuning psaltery, the stammerer discoursing eloquence, — 

What Avonder if all fail ? the shaft flieth wide of the mark. 

Alike if itself be crooked, or the bow be strung awry; 

And the mind which were excellent in one way, but foolishly toileth in 

another, 
What is it but aji ill-strung bow, and its aim a crooked arrow ? 
By knowledge of self, thou provest thy powers; put not the racer to the 

plough. 
Nor goad the toilsome ox to wager his slowness with the fleet. 



The extracts from this author are from Proverbial Philosophy. 



IFrom Fame.} 
THE DIGNITY AND PATIENCE OF GENIUS. 

A GREAT mind is an altar on a hill; should the priest descend from his 

altitude 
To canvass ott'erings and worship from dwellers on the plain ? 
Eather with majestic perseverance, will he minister in solitary grandeur, 
Confident the time will come when pilgrims shall be flocking to the shrine. 
For fame is the birthright of genius ; and he recketh not how long it be 

delayed : 
The heir need not hasten to his heritage, when he knoweth that his tenure 

is eternal. 
The careless poet of Avon, was he troubled for his fame ? 
Or the deep-mouthed chronicler of Paradise, heeded he the suffrage of his 

equals '? 
Majonides took no thought, committing all his honors to the future, 
And Flaccus, standing on his watch-tower, spied the praise of ages. 



[From Truth in Tliinga Fahe.] 
• SPIRITUAL FEELEHS. 

The soul hath its feelers, cobwebs floating on the wind. 
That catch events in their approach with sure and apt presentiment, 
So that some halo of attraction heraldeth a coming friend. 
Investing, in his likeness, the stranger that passed on before; 
And whUe the word is in thy mouth, behold thy word fulfilled, 
And he of whom we spake can answer for himself. 



\_From Writing.} 
LETTERS. 

TiiEiR preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence: 

When the despairing lover waiteth day after day, 

Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand. 

And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment: 

Or when tlie long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend. 

And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts, 

While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars. 

And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in 

fault: 
Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs 
Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay: 
Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare, 
IJacketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears: 
For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection; 
And a letter, imtimely delayed, is as rust to the solder. 
The pen, flowing in love, or tUpped black in hate, 
Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure. 
Hath (luickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword, 
More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune; 
And shouldst thou ask ray judgment of that which hath most profit in the 

world, 
For answer take thou this. The prudent penning of a letter. 



616 



TUPPER. 



[From Beauty. 1 
THE CONQUEROR. 

Thou mightier than Manoah's son, whence is thy great strength, 
And wherein the secret of thy craft, O charmer charming wisely '? — 

Ajax may ront a plialanx, but beauty sliall enslave him single-handed : 
Pericles ruled Athens, yet is he the servant of Aspasia: 
Light were the labor, and often-told the tale, to count the victories of 
beauty, — 

Learning sitteth at her feet, and Idleness laboreth to please her; 
Folly hath flung aside his bells, and leaden Dulness gloweth ; 
Prudence is rasli in her defence; Frugality filleth her witli riches; 
Despair came to her for counsel; and Bereavement was glad when she 

consoled ; 
Justice putteth up his sword at the tear of supplicating beauty 
And Mercy, with indulgent haste, hath pardoned beauty's sin. 
For beauty is the substitute for all things, satisfying every absence, 
The rich delirious cup, to make all else forgotten. , 



\_From Beauty.] 
ME NT A L S U PRE MA CY. 

There is a beauty of the reason: grandly independent of externals. 

It looketh from the windows of the house, shining in the man triumphant. 

I have seen the broad blank face of some misshapen dwarf 

Lit on a sudden as with glory, the brilliant light of mind: 

Who then imagined him deformed ? intelligence is blazing on his forehead. 

There is empire in his eye, and sweetness on his lip, and his brown cheek 

glittereth Avith beauty: 
And 1 have known some Nireus of the camp, a varnished paragon of 

chamberers, 
Fine, elegant, and shapely, moulded as the masterpiece of Phidias, — 
Such an one, with intellects abased, have I noted crouching to the dwarf, 
Whilst his lovers scorn the fool whose beauty hath departed! 



[From Beauty.] 
THE SOURCE OF MAN'S RULING PASSION. 

Vepjly the fancy may be false, yet hath it met me in my musings, 

(As expounding the pleasantness of pleasure, but no Avays extenuating 

license,) 
That even tliose yearnings after beauty, in wayward wanton youth. 
When guileless of ulterior end, it craveth but to look upon the lovely, 
Seem like struggles of the soul, dimly remembering pre-existence. 
And feeling in its blindness for a long-lost god to satisfy its longing; 

God, the undiluted good, is root and stock of beauty. 

And every child of reason drew his essence from that stem. 

Therefore, it is of intuition, an innate hankering for home, 



TUPPER. 



617 



A sweet returning to the well, from which our spirit flowed, 
That we, unconscious of a cause, should bask these darkened souls 
In some poor relics of the light that blazed in primal beauty. 

Only, being burdened with the body, spiritual appetite is warped, 

And sensual man, with taste corrupted, driuketh of .pollutions: 

Impulse is left, but indiscriminate; his hunger feasteth upon carrion; 

His natural love of beauty doteth over beauty in decay. 

He still thirsteth for the beautiful ; but his delicate ideal hath grown gross. 

And the very sense of thirst hath been fevered from affection into passion.' 



iFrom Indirect Influences.] 

ARGUMENT. 

The weakness of accident is strong, where the strength of design is weak, 
And a casual analogy convinceth, when a mind beareth not argument. 
Will not a man listen ? be silent; and prove thy maxim by example: 
Never fear, thou losest not thy hold, though thy mouth doth not render a 

reason. 
Contend not in wisdom with a fool, for thy sense maketh much of his 

conceit, 
And some errors never would have thriven, had it not been for learned 

refutation ; 
Yea, much evil hath been caused by an honest wrestler for truth. 
And much of unconscious good, by the man that hated wisdom: 
For the intellect judgeth closely, and if thou overstep thy argument, 
Or seem not consistent with thyself, or fail in thy direct purpose. 
The mind that went along with thee, shall stop and return without thee, 
And thou shall have raised a foe, where thou mightest have won a friend. 



[From Indirect Influences.'] 
THE POWER OF SUGGESTION. 

HiifTS, shrewdly strown, mightily disturb the spirit. 

Where a barefaced accusation would be too ridiculous for calumny : 

The sly suggestion touches nerves, and nerves contract the fronds. 

And the sensitive mimosa of affection trembleth to its root; 

And friendships, the growth of half a century, those oaks that laugh at 

storms, 
Have been cankered in a night by a worm, even as the prophet's gourd. 
Hast thou loved, and not known jealousy ? for a sidelong look 
Can please or pain thy heart more than the nudtitude of proofs : 
Hast thou hated, and not learned that thy silcMit scorn 
Doth deeper aggravate thy foe than loud-cursing malice ? — 

Thinkest thou the thousand eyes that shine with rapture on a ruin, 
Would have looked with half their wonder on the perfect pile ? 
And wherefore not — but that light hints, suggesting unseen beauties 
Fill the complacent gazer with self-grown conceits ? 



618 



TUPPER. 



And so, tlie rapid sketch winneth more praise to the painter. 

Than tlie consummate work elaborated on his easel : 

And so. the Helvetic lion caverned in the living rock 

Hath more of majesty and force, than if upon a marble pedestal. 

. . . . What hath charmed thine ear in music ? 

Is it the labored theme, the curious fugue or cento. — 

Nor rather the sparkles of intelligence flashing from some strange note 

Or the soft melody of sounds far sweeter for simplicity ? 

. . . . What hath filled thy mind in reading? 

Is it the volume of detail, where all is orderly set down, 

And they that read may run. nor need to stop and think; 

The book carefully accurate, that counteth thee no better than a fool, 

Gorging the passive mind with annotated notes; — 

iS'or rather the half-suggested thoughts, the riddles thou mayest solve; 

The light analogy, or deep allusion, trusted to thy learning. 

The confidence implied in thy skill to unravel meaning mysteries ? 

For ideas are ofttimes shy of the close furniture of words. 

And thought, wherein only is power, may be best conveyed by a suggestion. 

The flash that lighteth up a valley, ainid the dark midnight of a storm, 

Coineth the mind with that scene sharper than fifty summers. 



[From Names.'\ 
ILL-CHRISTENED. 

Who would call the tench a whale, or style a torch, Orion ? 

Yet many a silly jjarent hath dealt likewise with his nursling. 

Give thy child a fit distinguishment, making him sole tenant of a name. 

For it were sore hindrance to hold It in common with a hundred; 

In the Uabel of confused identities fame is little feasible, 

The felon shall detract from the philanthropist, and the sage share honors 

with the simple: 
Still, in thy title of distinguishment, fall not into arrogant assumption. 
Steering from caprice and affectations ; and for all thou doest have a reason. 
He that is ambitious for his son. should give him untried names. 
For those tliat have served other men. haply may injure by their evils; 
Or otherwise may hinder by their glories; therefore set him by himself. 
To win for his individual name some clear specific praise. 
There were nine Homers, all goodly sons of song; but where is any record 

of the eight ? 
One grew to fame, an Aaron's rod. and swallowed up his brethren. 
Who knoweth ? more distinctly titled, those dead eight had lived; 

Art thou named of a family, the same in successive generations ? 

It is open to thee still to earn for epithets, such an one. the good or great. 

Art thou named foolishly ? show that thou art wiser than thy fathers. 

Live to shame their vanity or sin by dutiful devotion to thy sphere. 

Art thou named discreetly ? it is well, the course is free; 

No competitor shall claim thy colors, neither fix his faults upon thee: 

Hasten to the goal of fame between the posts of duty. 

And win a blessing from the world, that men may love thy name ; 



TUPPER. 



619 



[From Indirect Influences.'] 
THE FORCE OF TRIFLES. 

A SENTENCE hath formed a character, and a character subdued a kingdom ; 
A picture liatli ruined souls, or raised them to commerce with the sivies. 

Planets govern not the soul, nor guide the destinies of man. 

But trifles, lighter than straws, are levers in the building up of character. 



[From y< gleet.] 
TO MURMURERS. 

Yet once more, griever at Neglect, hear me to thy comfort, or rebuke ; 
For, after all thy just complaint, the world is full of love. 

For human benevolence is large, though many matters dwarf it, 
Prudence, ignorance, imposture, and the straitenings of circumstance and 

time. 
And if to the body, so to the mind, the mass of men are generous: 
Their estimate who know us best, is seldom seen to err: 
Be sure the fault is thine, as pride, or shallowness, or vanity, 
If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit. 

Therefore examine thy state, O self-accoimted martyr of Neglect, 
It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong: 
But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows 
For pleasure," business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee, — 
Still be thou conqueror in tliis, the consciousness of higli deservings; 
Let it suffice tliee to be worthy ; faint not thou for praise ; 
For that thou art, be grateful; go humbly even In thy confidence; 
And set thy foot on the neck of an enemy so harmless as Neglect. 



[From Memory.] 
HINTS OF PRE-EXISTEXCE. 

Weke I at Petra, could I not declare. My soul hath been here before me ? 
Am I strange to the columned halls, the calm dead grandeur of Palmyra ? 
Know I not thy mount, O Carmel ! Have I not voyaged on the Danube 
Nor seen the glare of Arctic snows, — nor the black tents of the Tartar ? 
Is it then a dream, that I remember the faces of them of old ? 

Be ye my judges, imaginative minds, full-fledged to soar into tlie sun, 
Whose grosser natural thoughts the chemistry of wisdom hath sublimed, 
Have ye not confessed to a feeling, a consciousness, strange and vague, 
That ye have gone this way before, and walk again your daily life, 
Tracking an old routine, and on some foreign strand, 
Where bodily ye have never stood, finding your own footsteps ? 
Hath not at times some recent friend looked out an old familiar. 
Some newest circumstance or place teemed as with ancient memories ? 
A startling sudden flash lighteth up all for an instant. 

And then it is quenched, as in darkness, and leaveth the cold spirit 
tremblinj: 



620 



TUPPER. 



[From Neglect.'] 
LATE VALUATION. 

Good men are the health of the world, valued only when it perishetli; 

Like water, light, and air, all precious in their absence. 

AVho hath considered the blessing of his breath, till the poison of an asthma 

struclv him ? 
Who hath regarded the just pulses of his heart, till spasm or paralysis 

have stopped them ? 
Even thus, an unobserved routine of daily grace and wisdom, 
When no more here, had worship of a world, whose penitence atoned for 

its neglect. 



[ From Mystery.'] 
FOREKNOWLEDGE UNDESIRABLE. 

For mystery is man's life; we wake to the whisperings of novelty: 
And what tliough we lie down disappointed ? we sleep, to wake in hope. 
The letter, or the news, the chances and the changes, matters that may 

happen. 
Sweeten or embitter daily life with the honey-gall of mystery. 
For we walk blindfold, — and a minute may be much, — a step may reach 

the precipice ; 
What earthly loss, what heavenly gain, may not this day produce ? 
Levelled of Alps and Andes, without its valleys and ravines, 
How dull the face of earth, imfeatured of both beauty and sublimity: 
And so, shorn of mystery, beggared in its hopes and fears. 
How flat the prospect of existence, mapped by intuitive foreknowledge ? 



[From To-Day.] 
LIFE. 



A man's life is a tower, with a staircase of many steps. 

That, as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him : 

No going back, the past is an abyss; no stopping, for the present perisheth; 

But ever hasting on, precarious on the foothold of To-day. 



[From To-Moi-roir.] 
THE WORD OF BANE AND BLESSING. 

Oftkn, the painful present is comforted by flattering the future. 

And kind To-morrow beareth half the burdens of To-day. 

To-morrow, whispereth weakness ; and To-morrow findeth him the weaker. 

To-morrow, promiseth conscience; and behold, no to-day for a fulfilment. 

O name of hapj^y omen unto youth, O bitter word of terror to the dotard, 

Goal of folly's lazy wish, and sorrow's ever-coming friend. 

Fraud's loophole, — caution's hint, — and trap to catch the honest, — 

Thou wealth to many poor, disgrace to many noble. 

Thou hope and fear, thou weal and woe, thou remedy, thou ruin. 

How thickly swarms of thought are clustering round To-morrow. 



\^From To-Morrou\] 
PROCllAS TINA TION. 

Lo, it is tlie even of To-day, —a clay so lately a To-morrow; 

Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight ? 

O faint heart, still shall thy whisper be. To-morrow, 

And mnst the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope ? 

Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not 

stop it ; 
But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day. 



Henry Vaughan. 



THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. 

Deapv, secret greenness ! nurst below! 
Tempests and winds and winter- 
nights 
Vex not, tliat but One sees thee grow. 
That One made all these lesser 
lights. 

If those bright joys He singly sheds 

On thee, were all met in one crown. 

Both sun and stars would hide their 

heads ; 

And moons, though full, would get 

them down. 

Let glory be their bait whose minds 

Are all too high for a low cell: 
Though hawks can prey through 
storms and winds. 
The poor bee in her hive must 
dwell. 

Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still 
To what most takes them is a 
drudge ; 

And they too oft take good for ill. 
And thriving vice for virtue judge. 

What needs a conscience calm and 
bright 
Within itself an outward test ? 
Who breaks his glass to take more 
light, 
Makes way for storms into his rest. 



Then bless thy secret growth, nor 
catch 
At noise, but thrive unseen and 
dumb ; 
Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and 
watch. 
Till the white-winged reapers come ! 



THEY ARE ALL GONE. 

They are all gone into the world of 
light. 

And i alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy 
breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this 
hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 
Whose light doth trample on my 
days ; 
My days, winch are at best but dull 
and hoary. 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope ! and high humility ! 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have 
shewed them me 

To kindle my cold love. 



Dear, beauteous death ; the jewel of 
the just! 
Shining nowliere but in the dark ; 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy 
dust, 
Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged 
bird's nest may know 
At first sight if tbe bird be flown ; 
But wliat fair dell or grove he sings 
in now, 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter 
dreams, 
Call to the soul when man doth 
sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend 
our wonted themes. 
And into glory peep. 



FROM '■'CHILDHOOD." 

Deak, harmless age! the short, swift 
span. 

Where weeping virtue parts with 
man ; 

Where love without kist dwells, and 
bends 

AVhat way we please without self- 
ends. 

An age of mysteries ! which he 
Must live twice that would God's face 

see; 
Which angels guard, and with it play. 
Angels ! which foul men drive away. 



PEACE. 



My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars. 
Where stands a winged sentry 

All skilful in the wars. 
There, above noise and danger. 

Sweet Peace sits, crowned 
smiles, 
And one born in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files 



with 



He is thy gracious friend, 

And (O my soul, awake) 
Cid in pure love descend. 

To die here for thy sake. 
If thou canst get but thither, 

There grows the flower of peace, 
The rose that cannot wither. 

The fortress, and thy ease. 
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges; 

For none can thee secure 
But One, who never changes, 

Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. 



THE PUIiSVir. 

Lord ! what a busy, restless thing, 

Hast thou made man ! 
Each day and hour lie is on wing. 

Rests not a span. 
Then having lost the sun and light, 

By clouds surprised. 
He keeps a commerce in the night 

With air disguised. 
Hadst thou given to this active dust 

A state untired. 
The lost son had not left the husk, 

Nor home desird. 
That was thy secret, and it is 

Thy mercy too ; 
For when all fails to bring to bliss. 

Then this must do. 
Ah, Lord! and what a purchase will 

that be, 
To take us sick, that sound would not 
take thee ! 



FROM "ST. MAlir MAGDALEN." 

Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, 
Who loved much, and much more 

could move ; 
Her art ! whose memory must last 
Till truth tlu-ougli all" the Avorld be 

jjast ; 
Till his abused, despised flame 
Return to heaven from whence it 

came, 
And send a fire down, that shall 

bring 
Destruction on his ruddy wing. 



Her art! whose pensive, weejjing 

eyes 
Were ouce sin's loose and tempting 

spies ; 
But now are fixed stars, Avliose light 
Helps such dark stragglers to their 

sight. 

Self-boasting Pharisee ! how blind 
A judge wert thou, anil how unkind I 
It was impossible, that thou, 
Who wert all false, should' st true 

grief know. 
Is't just to jvidge her faithful tears 
By that foul rlieum thy false eye 

wears ? 
" This woman,"' say'st thou, " is a 

sinner!" 
And sate there none such at thy din- 
ner ■? 
Go, leper, go ! wash till thy flesh 
Comes like a child's, spotless and 

fresh ; 
He is still leprous that still paints: 
Who saint themselves, they are no 
saints. 



FROM THE " CHRISTIAX POLITICIAN.- 

Come, then, rare politicians of the 

time. 
Brains of some standing, elders in our 

clime, 
See here the method. A wise, solid 

state 
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate. 
Joint in advice, in resolutions just. 
Mild in success, true to the common 

trust. 
It cements ruptures, and by gentle 

hand 
Allays the heat and burnings of a 

land. [tract 

Eeligion guides it; and in all the 
Designs so twist, that Heaven con- 
firms the act. 
If from these lists you Avander, as 

you steer, 
Look back, and catechize your actions 

here. 
These are the marks to which true 

statesmen tend, 
And greatness here with goodness 

hath one end. 



PROVIDENCE. 

Sacred and secret hand ! 
By whose assisting, swift command 
The angel shewed that holy well. 
Which freed poor Ilagar from her 

fears, 
And turn'd to smiles the begging 
tears 
Of young, distressed Ishmad. 

How, in a mystic cloud 
AYhich doth thy strange, sure mercies 

shroud, 
Dost thou convey man food and 
money. 
Unseen by him till they arrive 
Just at his mouth, that thankless 
hive. 
Which kills thy bees, and eats thy 
honey ! 

If I thy servant be. 
Whose service makes even captives 

free, 
A fish shall all my tribute pay. 
The swift-winged raven shall bring 

me meat. 
And 1 like flowers shall still go 
neat. 
As if I knew no month but May. 

I will not fear what man, 
With all his idiots and power, can. 
Bags that wax old may plundered be; 
But none can sequester or let 
A state that with the siui doth set. 
And comes next morning fresh as he. 

Poor birds this doctrine sing. 
And herbs which on dry hills do 

spring. 
Or in the howling wilderness 

Do know thy dewy morning hours. 
And watch all night for mists or 
showers. 
Then drink and praise thy bounteous- 
ness. 

May he for ever die 
Who trusts not thee ! but wretchedly 
Hunts gold and wealth, and will not 
lend 
Thy service nor his soul one day! 



May his crown, like his hopes be 
clay; 
And, what he saves, may his foes 
spend ! 

If all my portion here, 
The measure given by thee each year, 
Were by my causeless enemies 
Usurped, it never should me grieve 
Who know how well thou canst 
relieve 
Whose hands are open as thine eyes. 

Great King of love and truth ! 
Who would' St not hate my froward 

youth. 
And wilt not leave me when grown 
old; 
Gladly Mill I, like Pontic sheep, 
Unto my wormwood diet keep, 
Since thou hast made thy arm my 
fold. 



SUNDAYS. 

Bright shadows of true rest! some 

shoots of bliss; 

Heaven once a week ; 
The next world's gladness prepossest 

in this ; 

A day to seek; 
Eternity in time; the steps by which 
We climb above all ages; lamps that 

light 
Man through his heap of dark days ; 

and the rich 
And full redemption of the whole 

week's flight! 

The pulleys unto headlong man ; 
time's bower; 
The narrow way; 

Transplanted Paradise; God's walk- 
ing-hour; 
The cool o'th' day! 

The creature's jubilee; God's parle 
with dust; 

Heaven here; man on those hills of 
mirth and flowers; 

Angels descending; the returns of 
trust ; 

A gleam of glory after six-days- 
showers ! 



The church's love-feasts; time's pre- 
rogative. 
And interest 

Deducted from the whole ; the combs 
and hive, 
And home of rest ; 

The milky way chalked out with 
suns ; a clue. 

That guides through erring hours; 
and in full story 

A taste of heaven on earth; the 
pledge and cue 

Of a full feast ; and the out-courts of 
glory. 



THE SHOWER. 

Waters above ! eternal springs ! 

The dew that silvers the Dove's 
wings ! 

O welcome, welcome, to the sad! 

Give dry dust drink, drink that 
makes glad. 

Many fair evenings, many flowers 

Sweetened with rich and gentle show- 
ers. 

Have I enjoyed ; and down have run 

Many a line and shining suii; 

But never, till this happy hour. 

Was blest with sucli an evening 
shower ! 



FROM ''RULES AND LESSONS." 

When first thy eyes imveil, give thy 

soul leave 
To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
The spirit's duty. True hearts spread 

and heave 
Unto their God, as flowers do to the 

sun. 
Give him thy first thoughts then; 

so shalt thou keep 
Him company all day, and in him 

sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer 

should 
Dawn with the day. There are set, 

awful hours 
'Twixt heaven and us. The manna 

was not good 



VAUGHAN. 



6-25 



After sun-rising ; far-day sullies 

flowers. 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth 

sins glut, 
And lieaven's gate opens when this 

world's is shut. 

Serve God hefore the Avorld ; let him 
not go. 

Until thou hast a blessing; then re- 
sign 

The whole unto him; and remember 
who 

Prevail' d by wrestling ere the sun 
did shine. 
Pour oil upon the stones; weep for 

thy sin ; 
Then journey on, and have an eye 
to heaven. 

When the world's up, and every 

swarm abroad, 
Keep thou thy temper; mix not with 

each clay; 
Dispatch necessities ; life hath a load 
Which must be carried on, and safely 

may, 
Yet keep those cares Mithout thee, 

let the heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the 

better part. 

To God, thy country, and thy friend 
be true ; 

If priest and people change, keep 
thou thy ground. 

Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; 

\nd, oaths once broke, the soul can- 
not be somid. 
The perjurer's a devil let loose: 

what can 
Tie up his hands, that dares mock 
God and man ? 

!Seek not the same steps with the 

crowd; stick thou 
To thy sure trot; a constant, humlile 

mind 
Is both his own joy, and his Maker's 

too; 
liCt folly dust it on, or lag behind. 
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul 
Outnms the earth, and lines the 

utmost pole. 



To all that seek thee bear an open 

heart ; 
Make not thy breast a lal)yrinth or 

traj) ; 
If trials come, this will make good 

thy part. 
For honesty is safe, come what can 

hap ; 
It is the good man's feast, the 

prince of flowers, 
Which thrives in storms, and smells 

best after showers. 



Spend not an hour so as to ^^"eep an- 
other. 

For tears are not fliine own ; if thou 
giv'st words. 

Dash not with them thy friend, nor 
heaven ; oh. smother 

A viperous thought; some syllables 
are swords. 
Unbitted tongues are in their pres- 
ence double ; 
'They shame their owners, and their 
liearers trouble. 



When night comes, list thy deeds; 

make plain the M-ay 
'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not 

with delays ; 
But perfect all before thou sleep" st; 

then say, 
" There's one sun more strung on my 

bead of days." 
What's good score up for joy; the 

bad well scann'd 
"Wash off with tears, and get thy 

Master's hand. 



Thy accounts tluis made, spend in the 

grave one hour 
Before thy time; be not a stranger 

there, 
Where thou may'st sleep Mhole ages; 

life's poor flower 
Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad 

spirits fear 
This conversation; but the good 

man lies 
P^ntombed many days before he 

dies. 



626 



VAUGHAN. 



Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close 

not thy eyes 
Up with thy curtains; give thy soul 

the wing 
In some good thoughts ; so when thy 

day shall rise, 
And thou unrakest thy tire, those 

sparks will bring 
New flames; besides where these 

lodge, vain heats mourn 
And die; that bush, where God is, 

shall not burn. 



TO HIS BOOKS. 

Bright books! the perspectives to 

our weak sights, 
The clear projections of discerning 

lights, 
Burning and shining thoughts, man's 

posthume day, 
The track of fled souls, and their 

milky way, voice 

The dead alive and busy, the still 
Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's 

white decoys! 
Who lives with you lives like those 

knowing flowers. 
Which in commerce with light spend 

all their houi's ; 
Which shut to clouds, and shadow's 

nicely shun, 
But with glad haste unveil to kiss 

the sun. (night. 

Beneath you all is dark, and a dead 
Which whoso lives in, wants both 

health and sight. 
By sucking you, the wise, like bees, 

do grow 
Healing and rich, though this they 

do most slow. 
Because most choicely ; for as great a 

store 
Have we of books as bees of herbs, 

or more : 



And the great task to try, then know, 

the good. 
To discern weeds, and judge of 

wholesome food. 
Is a rare scant perfonnance. For 

man dies 
Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds 

and flies. 
But you were all choice flowers; all 

set and dressed 
By old sage florists, who well knew 

the best ; 
And I amidst you all am turned a 

weed, 
Not wanting knowledge, but for want 

of heed. 
Then thank thyself, Avild fool, that 

would' st not be 
Content to know — what was too 

much for thee ! 



LIKE AS A IS' U USE. 

Even as a nurse, whose child's im- 
patient pace 

Can hardly lead his feet from place 
to place. 

Leaves her fond kissing, sets him 
down to go, 

Nor does uphold him for a step or 
two ; 

But when she finds that he begins to 
fall, 

She holds him up and kisses him 
withal ; 

So God from man sometimes with- 
draws his hand 

AAvhile, to teach his infant faith to 
stand; 

But when He sees his feeble strength 
begin 

To fail, He gently takes him up 
again. 



VERY. 



G21 



Jones Very. 



NA TUBE. 

The bubbling brook doth leap when 
I come by. 

Because niy feet find measui'e with 
its call ; 

The birds know when the friend they 
love is nigh, 

For I am known to them, both great 
and small. 

The flower that on the lonely hill- 
side grows 

Expects me there when spring its 
bloom has given; 

And many a tree and bush my wan- 
derings knows, 

And e'en the clouds and silent stars 
of heaven; 

For he who witli his Maker walks 
aright. 

Shall be tlieir lord as Adam was be- 
fore ; 

His ear shall catch each sound with 
new delight. 

Each object wear the dress that then 
it wore ; 

And he, as when erect in soul he 
stood, 

Hear from his Father" s lips that all 
is ijood. 



THE WORLD. 

'Tis all a great show. 

The world that we're in — 
None can tell when 'twas finished, 

None saw it begin; 
Men wander and gaze through 

Its courts and its halls. 
Like children whose love is 

The picture-himg walls. 

There are flowers in the meadow. 
There are clouds in the sky — 

Songs pour from the woodland, 
The waters glide by: 



Too many, too many 

For eye or for ear. 
The sights that we see. 

And the sounds that we hear. 

A weight as of slumber 

Comes down on the mind; 
So swift is life's train 

To its objects we're blind; 
I myself am but one 

In the fleet-gliding show — 
Like others I walk. 

But know not whei'e I go. 

One saint to another 

I heard say " How long ? " 
I listened, but nought more 

I heard of his song; 
The shadoM'S are walking 

Through city and plain, — 
How long shall the night 

And its shadow remain ? 

How long ere shall shine. 

In this glimmer of things, 
The light of which prophet 

In prophecy sings ? 
And the gates of that city 

Be open, whose sim 
No more to the Avest 

Its circuit shall run ! 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 

With the same letter heaven and 
home begin. 

And the words dwell together in the 
mind; 

For they who would a home in heav- 
en win, 

Must first a heaven in home begin to 
find. 

Be happy here, yet with a humble 
soul 

That looks for perfect happiness in 
heaven ; 



For what thou hast is earnest of the 

whole 
Which to the faithful shall at last 

be given. 
As once the patriarch, in a vision 

blessed, 
Saw the swift angels hastening to 

and fro, 



And the lone spot whereon he lay to 

rest 
Became to him the gate of heaven 

below ; 
So may to thee, when life itself is 

done. 
Thy home on earth and heaven above 

be one. 



Edmund Waller. 



OLD AGE AND DEATH. 

The seas are quiet when the winds 

give o'er; 
So calm are we when passions are no 

more. [to boast 

For then we know how vain it was 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be 

lost. 

Clouds of affection from our younger 

eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age 

descries. 
The soul's dark cottage, battered and 

decayed. 
Lets in new light through chinks 

that time has made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men be- 
come, [home. 

As they draw near to their eternal 

Leaving the old, both worlds at once 
tliey view. 

That stand upon the threshold of the 
new. 



THE ROSE. 

Go, lovely rose! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thovi sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have vmcommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come fortli — 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



ON A GIRDLE. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what tliis has done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely dear, 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass, and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; 
Give me but what tliis riband bound. 
Take all the rest the sim goes round. 



WEBSTER. 



629 



Augusta Webster. 



FROM ''A PREACHER.'' 

I KNOW not bow it is; 

I take the faith in earnest, 1 believe, 

Even at happy times I think I love, 

1 try to pattern me upon the type 

My Master left us, am no hypocrite 

Playing my soul against good men's 
applause. 

Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure. 

But serve a Master whom I chose 
because 

It seemed to me I loved Him, whom 
till now 

My longing is to love; and yet I feel 

A falseness somewhere clogging me. 
I seem 

Divided from myself; I can speak 
words 

Of burning faith and fire myself with 
them ; 

I can, while upturned faces gaze on 
me 

As if 1 were their Gospel manifest, 

Break into unplann,ed turns as natu- 
ral 

As the blind man's cry for healing, 
pass beyond 

My bounded manhood in the earnest- 
ness 

Of a messenger from God. And then 
I come 

And in my study's quiet find again 

The callous actor who, because long 
since 

He had some feelings in him like the 
talk 

The book puts in his mouth, still 
warms his pit 

And even, in his lucky moods, him- 
self, 

AVith tlie passion of his part, but 
lays aside 

His heroism with his satin suit 

And thinks " the part is good and 
well conceived 

And very natural — no flaw to find " 

And then forgets it. 



Yes, I preach to others 
And am — I know not what — a cast- 
away ? 
No, but a man who feels his heart 

asleep. 
As he might feel his hand or foot. 



To-night now I might triumph. Not 

a breath 
But shivered when I pictured the 

dead soul 
Awakening when the body dies, to 

know 
Itself has lived too late; and drew in 

long 
With yearning when I showed how 

perfect love 
Might make Earth's self be but an 

earlier Heaven. 
And I may say and not be over-bold. 
Judging from former fruits, "Some 

one to-night 
Has come more near to God, some 

one has felt 
What it may mean to love Him, 

some one learned 
A new great horror against death 

and sin. 
Some one at least — it may be 

many." 

And yet, I know not why it is^ this 

knack 
Of sermon-making seems to carry 

me 
x4.thwart the truth at times before 1 

know — 
In little things at least; thank God 

the greater 
Have not yet grown, by the familiar 

vise. 
Such puppets of a phrase as to slip 

by 
Without clear recognition. Take to- 
night — 
I preached a careful sermon, gravely 

planned. 



630 



WEBSTER. 



All of it written. Not a line was 

meant 
To fit the mood of any differing 
From my own judgment: not the 

less I find — 
(I thought of it coming home while 

my good Jane 
Talked of tlie Shetland pony I must 

get 
For the boys to learn to ride:) yes, 

here it is, 
And liere again on this page — l)lame 

by rote, 
Where by my private judgment I 

blame not. 
" We think our own thoughts on this 

day," I said, 
"Harmless it may be, kindly even, 

still 
Not Heaven's thoughts — not Sunday 

thoughts I'll say." 
Well now, do I, now that I think of 

it, 
Advise a separation of our thoughts 
By Sundays and by week-days. Heav- 
en's and ours ? 
By no means, for I think the bar is 

bad. 
ril teach my children "Keep all 

thinkings pure. 
And think them when you like, if 

but the time 
Is free to any thinking. Think of 

God 
So often that in anything you do 
It cannot seem you have forgotten 

Him, 
Just as you would not have forgotten 

us. 
Your mother and myself, although 

your thoughts 
Were not distinctly on us, while you 

played ; 
And, if you do this, in the Sunday's 

rest 
You will most naturally think of 

Him." 

Then here again " the pleasures of 

the world 
That tempt the younger members of 

my flock." 
Now I think really that they've not 

enough 



Of these same pleasures. Gray and 

joyless lives 
A many of them have, whom I would 

see 
Sharing the natural gayeties of youth. 
I wish they'd more temptations of 

the kind. 

Now Donne and Allan preach such 

things as these 
Meaning tliem and believing. As for 

me, 
What did I mean 'i* Neither to feign 

nor teach 
A Pharisaic service. 'Twas just this. 
That there are lessons and rebukes 

long made 
So much a thing of com'se that, un- 

observing. 
One sets them down as one puts dots 

to i's, 
Crosses to i's. 



[From A Painter.] 

THE AirrrsT's dread of blind- 
ness. 

How one can live on beauty and be 

rich 
Having only that ! — a thing not hard 

to find. 
For all the world is beauty. We 

know that. 
We painters, we whom God shows 

how to see. 
We have beauty ours, we take it 

where we go. 
Ay, my wise critics, rob me of niy 

broad. 
You can do that, but of my birth- 
right, no. 
Imprison me away from skies and 

seas. 
And the open sight of earth and her 

rich life, 
And the lesson of a face or golden 

hair: 
I'll find it for you on a whitewashed 

wall. 
Where the slow shadows only change 

so much 
As shows the street has different 

darknesses 
At noontime and at twiliglit. 



WEBSTER. 



631 



Only that 
Could make me poor of beauty which 

I dread 
Sometimes, I know not why, save 

that it is 
The one thing which I could 

bear, not bear 
Even with Kuth by me, even 

Ruth's sake — 
If this perpetual plodding with 

brush 
Should blind my fretted eyes! 



not 



for 

the 



ON THE LAKE. 

A SUMMEK mist on the mountain 
heights, 
A golden haze in the sky, 
A glow on the shore of sleeping 
lights, 
And shadows lie heavily. 

P'ar in the valley the tOATO lies still, 
Dreaming asleep in the glare. 

Dreamily near purs the drowsy rill. 
Dreams are afloat in the air. 

Dreaming above us the languid sky, 
Dreaming the slumbering lake, 

And we who rest floating listlessly. 
Say, love, do we dream or wake '? 



THE GIFT. 

HAPPY glow, O sun-bathed tree, 
O golden-lighted river, 

A love-gift has been given me, 
And which of you is giver '? 

1 came upon you something sad, 
Musing a mournful measure. 

Now all my heart in me is glad 
With a quick sense of pleasure. 



I came upon you with a heart 
Half-sick of life's vexed story. 

And now it grows of you a part, 
Steeped in your golden glory. 

A smile into my heart has crept 
And laughs through all my beinj 

New joy into my life has leapt, 
A joy of only seeing ! 

O happy glow, O siui-bathed tree, 

O golden-lighted river, 
A love-gift has been given me, 

And which of you is giver ? 



TWO MAIDENS. 

Two maidens listening to the sea — 
The younger said " The waves are 

glad, 
The waves are singing as they break." 

The elder spake : 
"Sister, their murmur sounds to me 

So very sad." 

Two maidens looking at a grave — 
One smiled, "A place of happy sleep. 
It would be happy if I slept." 

The younger wept : 
"Oh, save me from the rest you crave. 

So lone, so deep." 

Two maidens gazing into life — 
The younger said, " It is so fair, 
So warm with light and love and 
pride." , 

The elder sighed : 
" It seems to me so vexed with strife, 

So cold and bare." 

Two maidens face to face with death : 
The elder said, " With quiet bliss 
Upon his breast I lay my head." 

The younger said : 
" His kiss has frozen all my breath. 

Must I be his?" 



632 



WESLEY. 



Charles Wesley. 



STANZAS FROM " THE TRUE USE 
OF MUSIC." 

Listed into the cause of sin, 

Why should a good be evil '? 
Music, alas ! too long has been 

Pressed to obey the devil — 
Drunken, or lewd, or light, the lay 

Flowed to the soul's undoing — 
Widened, and strewed with flowers, 
the way 

Down to eternal ruin. 

Who on the part of God will rise, 

Innocent sound recover — 
Fly on the prey, and take the prize, 

Plunder the carnal lover — 
Strip him of every moving strain. 

Every melting measure — 
Music in virtue's cause retain, 

Rescue the holy pleasure ? 

Come, let us try if Jesus' love 

Will not as well inspire us; 
Tliis is the theme of those above — 

This upon earth shall fire us. 
Say, if your hearts are tuned to sing 

is there a subject greater ? 
Harmony all its strains may bring; 

Jesus' name is sweeter. 



THE ONLY LIGHT. 

Christ, whose glory fills the skies, 
Christ, the true, the only Light, 

Sun of Righteousness, arise, 

Triuni])!! o'er the sliades of night! 

Day-spring from on high, be near! 

Day-star, in my heart appear! 

Dark and cheerless is the morn 

Unaccom]ianied l)y Thee; 
Joyless is the day's return 

Till Thy mercy's beams I see; 
Till they inward light impart, 
Glail my eyes and war-m my heart. 



Visit, then, this soul of mine. 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! 

Fill me, Radiancy Divine, 
Scatter all my unbelief ! 

More and more Thyself display. 

Shining to the perfect day. 



,TESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 

Jesus, lover of my soul, 
Let me to Tliy bosom fly, 

AVhile the nearer waters roll. 
While the tempest still is nigh! 

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
Till the storm of life is past: 

Safe into Thy haven guide — 

receive my soul at last! 

Other refuge have I none — 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
Leave, ah! leave me not alone — 

Still support and comfort me. 
All my trust on Thee is stayed. 

All my help from Thee I bring: 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing. 

AVilt Thou not regard my call ? 

Wilt Thou not regard my prayer '? 
Lo! Ishik, Ifaint,"l fall — 

Lo! on Thee I cast my care; 
Reach me out Thy gracious hand. 

While I of Thy strength receive ! 
Hoping against hope I stand — 

Dying, and behold I live. 

Thou, O Christ, art all I want — 
More than all in Thee I find ; 

Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 
Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 

Just and holy is Thy name — 

1 am all unrighteousness; 
False, and full of sin I am: — 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 



WHEELER. 



633 



Plenteous grace with Thee i: 
found, — 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound — 

Make and keep me pure within. 
Thou of life the foiuitain art — 

Freely let me take of Thee; 
Spring Thovi up within my heart — 

Rise to all eternity. 



COME, LET US ANEW. 

Come, let us anew our journey pursue, 

Roll round with the year, 
And never stand still, till the Master 
appear. 

His adorable viill let us gladly fulfil, 

And our talents improve. 
By the patience of hope, and the 
labor of love. 



Our life is a dream; our time, as a 
stream. 
Glides swiftly away; 
And the fugitive moment refuses to 

stay. 

The arrow is flown; the moment is 

gone ; 
The millennial year 
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's 

here. 

that each in the day of his coming 

may say, 
" I liave fought my way through ; 

1 have finished the work thou didst 

give me to do." 

O that each, from his Lord, may re- 
ceive the glad word, 
"Well and faithfully done; 

*' Enter into my joy, and sit down on 
my throne." 



Ella Wheeler. 



SECRETS. 

TiiiXK not some knowledge rests with thee alone. 

Why, even God's stupendous secret. Death, 

We one by one, with our expiring breath. 

Do, pale with wonder, seize and make our own. 

The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown 

Despite her careful hiding; and the air 

Yields its mysterious marvels in despair. 

To swell the mighty storehouse of things known. 

In vain the sea expostulates and raves; 
It cannot cover from the keen world's sight 
The curious wonders of its coral caves. 
And so, despite thy caution or thy tears. 
The prying fingers of detective years 
Shall drag thy secret out into the light. 



634 



WHITE. 



Blanco White. 



TO NIGHT. 



Mysterious Night! when our first 

parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard 

tliy name ; 
Did he not tremble for this lovely 

frame, 
This glorious canopv of light and 

Ijlue ? 
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent 

dew. 
Bathed in the rays of the great set- 
ting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven 

came, 



And lo! creation widened in man's 
view. 

Who could have thought such dark- 
ness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who 
could find, 

While fly, and leaf, and insect lay re- 
vealed. 

That to such coimtless orbs thou 
madest us blind ! 

Why do v,e, then, shun Death with 
anxious strife ? — 

If Light can thus deceive, wherefore 
not Life ? 



Henry Kirke White. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMUOSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen 

sire! 
Whose modest form, so delicately 
fine, 
W^as nursed in whirling storms. 
And cradled in the winds. 

Thee when young Spring first ques- 
tioned Winter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the 
fight. 
Thee on this bank he threw 
To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the 

year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping 
gale, 
Unnoticed and alone, 
Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid 
the storms 

Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
Of life she rears her head. 
Obscure and unobserved ; 



\Vhile every bleaching breeze that on 

her blows. 
Chastens her spotless purity of 
breast. 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 



SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low. 
That bids this silent tear to flow; 
It is not grief that bids me moan. 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him 

home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest. 
When pale the star looks on its 

breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
Witli hallowed airs and symphonies. 
My spirit takes another tone. 
And sighs that it is all alone. 



The autumn leaf is sere and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed; 
I would not he a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh! 

The woods and winds, with sudden 

wail. 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free. 
And when 1 sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view. 
That thinks on me, and loves me 

too; 
1 start, and when the vision's flown, 
1 weep that I am all alone. 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resigned, thy 
peaceful cypress twine. 

Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation in her cell; 
Hears with faint eye the lingering 
knell. 
That tells her hopes are dead; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear. 
Yet she can smile, and say, ^My all 
was not laid here. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Though from Hope's summit 
hurled, 
Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven. 
For thou severe wert sent from 
heaven 
To wean me from the world ; 
To turn my eye 
From vanity. 
And point to scenes of bliss that 
never, never die. 



What is this passing scene! 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, 
Aud then night sweeios along the 
plain. 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discussed) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with 
him in the dust. 

Oh, what is beauty's power ? 

It flourishes and dies; 
Will the cold earth its silence i)reak, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a 
cheek 
Beneath its surface lies? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er beauty's fall; 
Her praise resounds no moic when 
mantled in the pall. 

The most beloved on earth 
Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete. 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing 
sweet ; 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade. 
When in forsaken tomb the form 
beloved is laid. 

Then since this world is vain. 

And volatile and fleet. 
Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
Where rust corrupts, and moth de- 
stroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat ? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, 
this throbbing heart be still ? 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Thou art not stern to me; 
Sad monitress! 1 own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow and say. My God, Thy 
will be done. 



63G 



WHITNEY. 



THE STANZA ADDED TO WALLER'S 
" ROSE." 

Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance 
rise ; 
And teach the maid, 
Tliat goodness Time's rude hand de- 
lies, 
That virtue lives when beauty dies. 



TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, I am young, — my chin 

is bare, 
And I have \\'ondered much when 

men have told 
How youtli was free from sorrow and 

from care. 
That thou should'st dwell with me, 

and leave the old. 
Sure dost not like me ! — Slirivelled 

hag of hate. 
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is 

sadly long; 
1 am not either, beldame, over 

strong; 
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter 

hate. 
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable 

pate; [face; 

I am yet young, and do not like thy 
And lest thou should'st resume the 

wild-goose chase. 



I'll tell thee something all thy heat 

to assuage. 
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my 

age. 



A LITTLE BEFORE DEATH. 

Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This 
sickly dream 
Of life will vanish from my fever- 
ish brain; 
And deatb my wearied spirit will re- 
deem 
From this wild region of unvaried 
pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as be- 
fore, — 
Yon landscape smile, — yon golden 
harvest grow, 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing 
will soar, 
When Henry's name is heard no 
more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends 
caress, 
They laugh in health, and future 
evils brave; 
Them shall a wife and smiling chil- 
dren bless, 
AYhile I am mouldering in my silent 
grave. 
God of the just, — Thou gavest the 

bitter cup; 
I l)ow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



Adeline D. T. Whitney. 



EQUINOCTIAL. 

The sun of life has crossed the line; 

The summer-shine of lengthened 
light 
Faded and failed, till where I stand 

'Tis equal day and equal night. 

One after one, as dwindling hours. 
Youth's glowing hopes have drop- 
ped away. 

And soon may barely leave the gleam 
That coldly scores a winter's day. 



I am not young; I am not old; 

The Hush of morn, the sunset calm. 
Paling and deepening, each to each. 

Meet midway with a solemn charm. 

One side I see the summer fields 
Not yet disrobed of all their green; 

While westerly, along the hills 
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle point, where cloud and 
storm 
Make battle-groimd of this, my life ! 



WHITNEY. 



637 



Where, even-matched, the night and 
(lay 
Wage round me their September 
strife ! 

I bow me to the threatening gale; 

I know wlien that is overpast, 
Among the peaceful harvest days, 

An Indian summer comes at last I 



BEHIND THE MASK. 

It was an old, distorted face, — 
An uncouth visage, rough and 
wild, — 
Yet, from behind, with laughing 
grace, 
Peeped the fresh beauty of a child. 

And so, contrasting strange to-day, 
My heart of youth doth inly ask 

If half earth's wrinkled grimness 
may 
Be but the baby in the mask. 

Behind gray hairs and furrowed bi'ow 

And withered look that life puts 

on, 

Each, as he wears it, comes to know 

How the child hides, and is not 

gone. 

For while the inexorable years 
To saddened features fit their 
mould, 
Beneath the work of time and tears 
Waits something that will not grow 
old! 

The rifted pine upon the hill. 
Scarred by the lightning and the 
wind. 
Through bolt and blight doth nurture 
still 
Young fibres underneath the rind ; 

And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent, 
And wasted hope, and sinf id stain, 

Roughen the strange integument 
The struggling soul nuist wear in 
pain; 



Yet when she comes to claim her own, 

Heaven's angel, happily, shall not 

ask 

For that last look the world hath 

known, 

But for the face behind the mask ! 



THE THREE LIGHTS. 

My window that looks down the west, 
Where the cloud-thrones and islands 

rest. 
One evening, to my random sight. 
Showed forth this picture of delight. 

The shifting glories were all gone; 
The clear blue stillness coming on; 
And the soft shade, 'twixt day and 

night 
Held the old earth in tender light. 

Up in the ether hung the horn 
Of a young moon; and, newly born 
From out the shadows, trembled far 
The shining of a single star. 

Only a hand's breadth was between: 

So close they seemed, so sweet- 
serene. 

As if in heaven some child and 
mother. 

With peace untold, had found each 
other. 

Then my glance fell from that fair 

sky 
A little down, yet very nigh. 
Just where the neighboring tree-tops 

made 
A lifted line of billowy shade, — 

And from the earth-dark twinkled 

clear 
One other spark, of human cheer; 
A home-smile, telling where there 

stood 
A farmer's house beneath the Avood. 

Only these three in all the space; 
Far telegraphs of various place. 
Which seeing, this glad thought was 

mine, — 
Be it but little oandle-shine. 



638 



WHITNEY. 



Oi- golden disk of moon that swings 
Nearest of ail tlie lieavenly things, 
Or world in awful distance small, 
One Light doth feed and link them 
all! 



" / iriLL ABIDE IX THINE HOUSE." 

Among so many, can He care ? 
Can special love be everywhere ? 
A myriad homes, — a myriad ways, — 
And God's eye over every place. 

Orer ; but in ? The world is full ; 
A grand omnipotence must rule; 
But is there life that doth abide 
With mine own living, side by side ? 

So many, and so wide abroad : 
Can any heart have all of God ? 
From the great spaces, vague and dim. 
May one small household gather Him? 

I asked : my soul bethought of this : — 
In just that very place of his 
AVhere He hath put and keepeth you, 
(Jod hath no other thing to do! 



HEARTH-GLOW. 

ly the fireshine at the twilight. 

The pictui'es that I see 
Are less with mimic landscape bright 

Than with life and mystery. 



Where the embers flush and flicker 
With their iialpitating glow, 

I see, titfuller and quicker, 
Heart-pulses come and go. 

And here and there, with eager flame, 

A little tongue of light 
Upreaches eai-nestly to claina 

A somewhat out of sight. 

I know, with instinct sure and high, 
A somewhat must be there; 

Else should the fiery impulse die. 
In ashes of despair. 

Through the red ti'acery I discern 

A parable siddime ; 
A solemn myth of souls that burn 

In ordeals of time. 



SUNLIGHT AND STAIUJGHT. 

Got) sets some souls in shade, alone; 
Tliey have no daylight of their own: 
Only in lives of happier ones 
They see the shine of distant suns. 

God knows. Content thee with thy 

night. 
Thy greater heaven hath grander 

light. 
To-day is close; the hours are small; 
Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. 

Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; 
Keach forth a larger bliss to find. 
To-day is brief : the inclusive spheres 
Kain raptures of a thousand yeai's. 



LAIir^. 

My little maiden of four years old — 

No myth, but a genuine child is she. 
With her bronze-brown eyes and her curls of gold — 

Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me. 

Rubbing her shoulder Avith rosy palm. 
As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her, 

She cried, '' O mother! I found on my arm 
A horrible, crawling caterpillar! " 

And with mischievous smile she could scarcely smother, 
Yet a glance in its daring, half awed, half shy, 

She added, '• While they were about it, mother 
I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!" 



They were words to the thought of the soul that turns 

From the coarser form of a partial growth, 
Eeproaching the intinite patience that yearns 

With an unknown glory to crown them hoth. 

Ah, look thou largely, with lenient eyes, 
On wliatso beside tliee may creep and cling, 

For the possible glory that underlies 
The passing phase of the meanest thing ! 

What if God's great angels, whose waiting love 

Beholdeth our pitiful life below 
From the holy height of their heaven above. 

Could n't bear with the worm till the wings should grow ? 



Elizabeth H. Whittier. 



CHAIUTY. 

The pilgrim and stranger, who, \ For gifts, in his name, of food and 

thi'ough the day, I rest, 

Holds over the desert his trackless j The tents of Islam, of God are 

way, I blest. 



Where the terrible sands no shade 

have known. 
No sound of life save his camel's 

moan, 
Hears, at last, through the mercy of 

Allah to all, 
From his tent-door, at evening, the 
Bedouin's call: 
" Whoever thou art, whose need is 

great, 
In the name of God, the Compas- 
sionate 
And Merciful One, for thee I 
wait!" 



Thou, who hast faith in the Christ 

above, 
Shall the Koran teach thee the Law 

of Love ? 
O Christian ! — open thy heart and 

door, — 
Cry, east and west, to the wandering 
poor, — 
" Whoever thou art, whose need is 

great, 
In the name of Christ, the Compas- 
sionate 
And Merciful One, for thee I 
wait! " 



John G. 

THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Blessings on thee, little man. 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 



Whittier. 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 

From my heart I give thee joy, — 

I was once a barefoot boy ! 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side. 



640 



WHITTIER. 



Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
(Jutward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh, for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned in schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the Avild-flower's time and place. 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
( )f the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young. 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
AVhere the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters 

shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

Oh. for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Huumiing-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 
Laughed tlit> brook for my delight 
Thi-ough the day and through the 

night. 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked Avith me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my liorizon grew 



Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

Oh, for festal dainties spread, 
IJke my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold; 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy. 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble - speared the new - mown 

sward. 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat. 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride. 
Lose the freedom of tlie sod. 
Like a colt's for work be shod. 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden grountl ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 



ly SCHOOL-DA VS. 

Still sits the school-house by the 
road, 

A ragged beggar sunning; 
Around it still the sumachs grow. 

And blackberry-vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 
Deep scarred by raps official ; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial; 



The charcoal frescoes on its wall; 

Its clooi'"s worn sill, hetraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

IShone over it at setting ; 
Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
Antl brown eyes full of grieving, 

Of one wlio still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled : 

His cap ijulled low upon a face 
Where pride and shame were min- 
gled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; — 

As restlessly her tiny hands 
The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw^ her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hand's light caressing, 

And heai-d the tremble of her voice. 
As if a fault confessing. 

" I'm sorry that I spelt the word : 

I hate to go above you. 
Because."' — the brown eyes lower 
fell. — 

" Because, you see, I love you! " 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard 
school 

How few who pass above him 
Lament their triumph and liis loss. 

Like her, — because they love Mm. 



MY PSALM. 

I .AiouKX no more my vanished yeai's: 

Beneath a tender rain. 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 



The west-winds blow, and, singing 
low, 

I hear tlie glad streams run; 
The windows of my soul I throw 

Wide open to the sun. 

No longer foi-ward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear; 
But, grateful take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land. 

To harvest weed and tare: 
The manna droi:)ping from (iod's 
hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay 

Aside the toiling oar; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 
Among the ripening corn. 

Nor freshness of the liowers of May 
Blow through the autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven. 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given : 

The woods shall wear their robes of 
praise, 

The soxith-wind softly sigh, 
And sweet, calm days in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of w^rong ; 
The graven flowers that wreathe the 
sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to 
heal, — 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I tlie more enjoy. 

All as God wills, who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold. 
And knoweth nicMe of all my- needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 



642 



WHITTIER. 



Enough that blessiiiijs undeserved 
Have marked my erring track; — 

That wheresoe'er my feet have 
swerved, 
His chastening turned me back : — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood. 
Making tlie springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; — 

That death seems but a covered way 

Which opens into light. 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight; — 

That care and trial seem at last. 
Through Memory's sunset air, 

Like mountain-ranges overpast. 
In purple distance fair; — 

That all the jarring notes of life 
Seem blending in a psalm, 

And all the angles of its strife 
Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 
And so the west-winds i^lay ; 

And all the windows of my heart 
I open to the day. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn. 

The cluster' d spires of Frederick 

stand. 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland ; 

Kound about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach-tree fruited deej), 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 
To the eyes of the famished rebel 
horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early 
fall. 

When Lee marched over the moun- 
tain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down. 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 



Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars. 

Flapped in the morning wind: the 

sim 
Of noon looked down, and saw not 

one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and 

ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
She took up the flag the men hauled 
down. 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced: the old flag met his 
" sight. 

" Halt !" — the dust-brown ranks stood 

fast; 
•'Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and 

sash. 
It rent the banner with seam and 

gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken statt. 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken 
scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window- 
sill. 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray 

head. 
But spare your country's flag." she 

said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirr'd 
To life at that woman's deed and 
word. 

''Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. 



WHITTIER. 



643 



All clay long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 

All daj' long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And, through the hill-gaps, sunset 
light 

Shone over it Mith a warm good- 
night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
And the rebel rides on his raids no 
more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear 
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's 
bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 
Flag of Freedom and Union wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law: 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town. 



MAUD MULLEli. 

Matd Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadoM' sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the 

wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry 

glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off 

town , 
White from its hill-slope looking 

down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague 

imrest 
And a nameless longing filled her 

breast, — 



A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had 
known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees to greet the maid : 

And asked a draught from the spring 

that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring 

bubbled np. 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it. looking 

down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered 

gown. 

" Thanks," said the judge, " a 

sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never 

quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers 
and trees. 

Of the singing birds and the hum- 
ming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and won- 
dered whether 

The cloud in the Avest would bring 
foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles bare and 
brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel 
eyes. 

At last, like one mIio for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Mnller looked and sighed: 

" Ah me! 
That I the judge's bride might be! 

"He Avould dress me up in silks so 

fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 



644 



WIIITTIER. 



" My father should wear a broadcloth 

coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and 

gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy 

each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe 

the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our 

door. ' ' 

The judge looked back as he climbed 

the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standmg still. 

" A form more fair, a face more 

sweet. 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and grace- 
ful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

"No doulttful balance of rights and 

wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless 

tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health, and quiet, and loving 
words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud 

and cold. 
And his mother vain of her rank and 

gold. 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode 

on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that after- 
noon. 

When he hummed in court an old 
love-tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the 

well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover 

fell. 



He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for 
power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright 

glow, 
He watched a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was 
red. 

He longed for the wayside well in- 
stead, 

And closed his eyes on his garnished 
rooms. 

To dream of meadows and clover- 
blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a 

secret pain : 
' ' Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day. 
Where the barefoot maiden raked 
her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and 

poor, 
And many children played round 

her door. 

But care, and sorrow, and childbirth 

pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone 

hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow 

lot. 

And she heard the little spring-brook 

fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down, with timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her 
face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitclien walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 



WllITTlER. 



645 



And for him who sat by the chimney 

lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and 

luug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life 

again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas, for maiden, alas, for judge. 
For rich repiner and household 
drudge ! 

God pity them both, and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth re- 
call. 

For of all sad words of tongue or 

pen, 
The saddest are these: "It might 

have been! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope 

lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Eoll the stone from its grave away ! 



[From The Tvnf on fhe Beach.— The Grave 

bij the Lake.'] 

UXn'EIlSAL SAL VA TIOX. 

O THE generations old 

Over whom no church-bells tolled, 

Christless, lifting up blind eyes 

To the silence of the skies ! 

For the innumerable dead 

Is my soul disquieted, 

Hearest thou, O of little faith. 
What to thee the mountain saith. 
What is whispered by the trees ? — 
" Cast on God thy care for these; 
Trust him, if Ihy sight be dim; 
Doubt for them is doubt of Him. 

"Blind must be their close-shut eyes 
Where like night the sunshine lies, 
Fiery-linked the self-forged chain 
Binding ever sin to pain. 
Strong their prison-house of will. 
But without He waitetli still. 



"Xot with hatred's undertow 
Doth the IjOvc Eternal flow ; 
Every chain that spirits wear 
Crumbles in the breath of prayer; 
And the i>enitent's desire 
Opens every gate of lire. 

"Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, 
Yearns to reach these souls in prison ! 
Through all depths of sin and loss 
Drops the plummet of Thy cross ! 
Never yet abyss was found 
Deeper than that cross could sound !' ' 



[From The Tent on the /leach. — Abraham 
Davenport.] 

KA T URE' S RE VEUEN ( E . 

The harp at Nature's advent, strung 

Has never ceased to play : 
The song the stars of morning sung 

Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is 
given, 

By ail things near and far: 
The ocean looketh up to heaven. 

And mirrors every star. 

Its waves are kneeling on the strand. 
As kneels the human knee. 

Their white locks bowing to the sand, 
The priesthood of the sea ! 

They pour their glittering treasures 
forth. 

Their gifts of pearl they bring, 
And all the listening hills of earth 

Take up the song they sing. 

The green earth sends her incense 
up 

From many a mountain shrine: 
From folded leaf and dewy cup 

She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills 
Else white as wings of prayer; 

The altar-curtains of the hills 
Are sunset's purple air. 

The winds with hymns of praise are 
loud. 

Or low Avith sobs of pain, — 
The thunder-organ of the cloud. 

The dropping tears of rain. 



G4G 



WHITTIER. 



With drooping head and branches 
crossed 

The twihght forest grieves, 
Or spealvs with tongues of Pentecost 

From all its sunlit leaves. 

The blue sky is the teniphvs arch, 
Its transept earth and air. 

The music of its starry march 
The chorus of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame 
With which her years began, ' 

And all her signs and voices shame 
The prayerless heart of man. 



THE PRESSED GENTIAN. 

The time of gifts has come again, 
And, on my northern window-pane. 
Outlined against the day's brief light, 
A Christmas token hangs in sight. 
The wayside travellers, as they pass, 
Mark the gray disk of clouded glass ; 
And the dull blankness seems, per- 
chance, 
Folly to their wise ignorance. 

They cannot from their outlook see 
The perfect grace it hath for me ; 
For there the llower, whose fringes 

through 
The frosty breath of autumn blew. 
Turns from without its face of bloom 
To the warm tropic of my room. 
As fair as when beside its brook 
The hue of bending skies it took. 

So, from the trodden ways of earth. 
Seem some sweet souls who veil 

their worth. 
And offer to the careless glance 
The clouding gray of circumstance. 
They blossom best where hearth-fires 

burn. 
To loving eyes alone they turn 
The flowers of inward grace, that 

hide 
Their beauty from the world outside. 

But deeper meanings come to me. 
My half-immortal flower, from thee ! 



Man judges from a partial view, 
None ever yet his brother knew; 
The Eternal Eye that sees the whole 
May better read the darkened soul, 
And And, to outward senses denied. 
The flower upon its inmost side! 



MY PLAYMATE. 

The pines were dark on Ilamoth hill, 
Their song was soft and low : 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet. 
The orchard birds sang clear : 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flow- 
ers. 
My playmate left her home. 
And took with her the laughing 
spring. 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
She laid her hand in mine ; 

AVhat more could ask the bashful 
boy 
Who fed her father' s kine ? 

She left us in the bloom of May : 
The constant years told o'er 

Their seasons with as swett May 
morns. 
But she came back no more. 

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jewelled hands 
She smooths her silken gown, — 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
1 shook the walnuts dow n. 




nc PINES WERE DARK ON RAMOTH HILL. 



Page 64b 



WILDE. 



647 



The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
Tlie brown nuts on the liill, 

And still the May-day flowers make 
sweet 
The woods of Follymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 
The bird builds iu the tree, 

The dark pines sing on Kamoth hill 
The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems. — 

If ever the pines of Kamoth wood. 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice: 
Does she remember mine ? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father's kine '? 



What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours, — 

That other hands with nuts are ttlled, 
And other laps with flowers ? 

O playmate in the golden time! 

Our mossy seat is green. 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and 
fern 

A sweeter memory l)low; 
And there in spring the vecries sing 

The songs of long ago. 

And still the pines of Eamoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea, — 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee! 



Oscar Wilde. 



EASTER-DAY. 

The silver trumpets rang across the 
dome : 
The people knelt upon the ground 

with awe : 
And borne upon the necks of men 
I saw. 
Like some great god, the Holy Lord 

of Rome. 
I'riest-like, he wore a robe more 
white than foam. 
And, king-like, swathed himself 

in royal red. 
Three crowns of gold rose high 
upon his head : 
In splendor and in light the Pope 

passed home. 
My heart stole back across wide 
wastes of years 
To One who wandered by a 

lonely sea. 
And sought in vain for any place 
of rest: 
"Foxes have holes, and every bird 
its nest, 
I, only I. nuist wander wearily, 
And bruise my feet, and drink 
wine salt with tears." 



MADONNA MIA. 

A i,iLY-GiRL, not made for this 
world's pain. 
With brown, soft hair close braided 

by her ears. 
And longing eyes half veiled by 
slumberous tears 
Like bluest water seen through mists 

of rain: 
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath 
left its stain, 
Red underlip drawn in for fear of 

love. 
And white throat, whiter than the 
silvered dove. 
Through whose wan marble creeps 

one iHu-ple vein. 
Yet, though my lips shall praise her 
without cease. 
Even to kiss her feet I am not 
bold, [of awe. 

Being o'ershadowed by the wings 
Like Dante, when he stootl with 
Beatrice 
Beneath the flaming lion's breast, 

and saw 
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair 
of Gold. 



648 



WILDE. 



SONNET. 

ON HEARING THE DIES IR^ SUNG IN 
THE SISTINE CHAPEL. 

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in 
the spring, 
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted 

dove. 
Teach nie more clearly of Thy life 
and love 
Than terrors of red flame and thim- 

dering. 
The empurpled vines dear memories 
of Thee bring: 
A bird at evening Oying to its nest. 
Tells me of One who had no place 
of rest: 
I think it is of Thee the sparrows 

sing. 
Come rather on some autumn after- 
noon. 
When red and brown are burnished 

on the leaves, 
And the tields echo to the gleaner's 
song. 
Come when the splendid fulness of 
the moon 
Looks down upon the rows of 

golden sheaves. 
And reap Thy harvest : we have 
waited long. 



IMPRESSION DU MATIN. 

The Thames nocturne of blue and 

gold 

Changed to a harmony in gray: 

A barge with ochre-colored hay 

Dropt from the wharf: and chill and 

cold 

The yellow fog came creeping down 
The bridges, till the houses' walls 
Seemed changed to shadows, and 
St. Paul's 

Loomed like a bubble o'er the town. 

Then suddenly arose the clang 
Of waking life; the streets were 

stirred 
With country wagons : and a bird 

Flew to the glistening roofs and sang. 



But one pale woman all alone. 
The daylight kissing her wan hair. 
Loitered beneath the gas-lamps' 
flare, 

With lips of flame and heart of stone. 



.S' UNUISE. 

The sky is laced with fitful red. 
The circling mists and shadows 

flee, 
The dawn is rising from the sea, 
Like a white lady from her bed. 

And jagged brazen arrows fall 
Athwart the feathers of the night. 
And a long wave of yellow liglit 
Breaks silently on tower and hall, 

And spreading wide across the 

wold 
Wakes into flight some fluttering 

bird. 
And all the chestnut tops are 

stirred 
And all the branches streaked with 

gold. 



SILHOUETTES. 

The sea is flecked with bars of gray 
The dull dead wind is out of tmie, 
And like a withered leaf the moon 

Is blown across the stormy bay. 

Etched clear upon the pallid sand 
The black boat lies: a sailor boy 
Clambers aboard in careless joy 

With laughing face and gleaming 
hand. 

And overhead the curlews cry. 
Where through the dusky upland 

grass 
The young brown-throated reapers 
pass. 
Like silhouettes against the sky. 



HEQUIESCAT. 

Tread lightly, she is near 

Under the snow. 
Speak gently, she can hear 

The daisies grow. 



All her bright golden hair 
Tarnished with rust, 

She that was young and fair 
Fallen to dust. 

Lily-like, white as snow, 

She liardly knew 
She was a woman, so 

Sweetly she grew. 



Coffin-board, heavy stone. 

Lie on her breast, 
I vex my heart alone 

She is at rest. 

Peace, peace, she cannot hear 

Lyre or sonnet. 
All my life's buried here, 

Heap eartli upon it. 



Richard Henry Wilde. 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close 

Is scattered on the ground — to die. 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf. 

That trembles in tlie moon's pale 
ray! 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief; 

Restless, and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me I 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the 

sea, — 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



TO THE MOCKING BIRD. 

AVinged mimic of the woods I thou 
motley fool ! 

Who shall thy gay buffoonery de- 
scribe ? 

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and 
gibe: 

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy 
tribe, 

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's 
school ; 

To thee, the palm of scoffing, we as- 
cribe, 

Arch-mocker and mad abbot of mis- 
rule ! 

For such thou art by day — but all 
night long 

Thou pour' St a soft, sweet, pensive, 
solemn, strain, 

As if thou didst, in this thy moon- 
light song. 

Like to the melancholy Jacques com- 
plain, — 

Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and 
wrong. 

And sighing for thy motley coat 
again. 



650 



WILLIAMS — WILLIS. 



Helen Maria Williams. 



WHILST THEE I SEEK. 

Whilst Thee 1 seek, protecting 
Power ! 

Be my vain wislies stilled ; 
And may this consecrated liour 

Witli better hopes be tilled. 

Tlay love the power of thought be- 
stowed, — 

'J'o Thee my thoughts would soar : 
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed; 

That mercy I adore. 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul most dear. 

Because conferred by Thee. 

In every joy that crowns my days. 

In every pain I bear. 
My heart sliall find deliglit in praise, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favored 
hour. 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 
Resigned, when storms of sorrow 
lower, 
My soul shall meet Thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 
The gathering storm sliall see ; 



My steadfast heart shall know no 
fear; 
That heart will rest on Thee. 



SOXNET TO HOPE. 

On, ever skilled to wear tlie form we 

love. 
To bid the shapes of fear and grief 

depart, — 
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay 

smile remove 
Tlie lasting sadness of an aching 

heart. 
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let 

me hear; 
Say that for me some pleasures yet 

shall bloom; 
That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's 

precious tear, 
Shall soften or shall chase misfor- 

tiuie's gloom. 
But come not glowing in the dazzling 

ray 
Which once with dear illusions 

charmed my eye; 
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, 

on my way 
The flowers I fondly thought too 

l)right to die. 
Visions less fair will soothe my pen- 
sive breast. 
That asks not happiness, but longs 

for rest. 



Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful 

dove ! 
Tliy daily visits have touched my love. 
I watcli thy coming, and list the note 
That stirs so low in thy mellow 
throat. 

And my joy is high 
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 



Why dost thou sit on the heated 
eaves. 

And forsake the wood with its fresh- 
ened leaves ? 

Why dost thou liaunt the sultry 
street. 

When the paths of the forest are cool 
and sweet ? 
How canst thou bear 

This noise of people — this sultry air ? 



Thou alone of the feathered race 
Dost look unscared on the human 

face; 
Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 
Dost love Avith man in his haunts 

to be; 
And the " gentle dove" 
Has become a name for trust and 

love. 

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! 

Thou'rt named with childhood's ear- 
liest word ! 

Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh 
and wild 

In the prisoned thoughts of the city 
child; 
And thy glossy wings 

Are its brightest image of moving 
things. 

It is no light chance. Thou art set 

apart. 
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy 

heart, 
To stir the love for the bright and 

fair 
Tliat else were sealed in this crowded 

air; 
I sometimes dream 
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 

Come, then, ever, when daylight 

leaves 
The page I read, to my humble 

eaves. 
And wash thy breast in the hollow 

spout, 
And nun-mur thy low sweet music 

out! 
I hear and see 
Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in 

thee! 



SATURDAY AFTERNOOX. 

I LOVE to look on a scene like 
this. 
Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not 
old. 
And my locks are not yet gray; 



For it stirs the blood in an old man's 
heart, 

And )nakes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore 
years ; 
And they say that I am old, 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper. 
Death, 
And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and '* I 'bide my time:" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like 
this, 
xYnd I half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring: 
I can feel the thrill of the daring 
jump, 

And the rush of the breathless 
swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And 1 whoop the smothered call, 
And my feet slip up on the seedy Hoor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die Mhen my time 
shall come. 
And I shall be glad to go ; 
For the world at best is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low ; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart 
will fail 
In treading its gloomy way; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreari- 
ness 
To see the young so gay. 



ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD 
TIRED OF PL A F." 

TiKED of play ! tired of play ! 

What hast thou done this livelong 
day ? 

The birds are silent, and so is the bee; 

The sun is creeping up steeple and 
tree ; 

The doves have flown to the shelter- 
ing eaves. 

And the nests are dark with the 
drooping leaves; 



652 



WILLIS. 



Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
How hastthou spent it — restless one ? 

Playing ? Bnt what hast thon done 
beside, 

To tell thy mother at eventide? 

What promise of morn is left un- 
broken ? 

What kind word to thy playmate 
spoken ? 

Whom hast thou pitied, and whom 
forgiven ? 

How with thy faults has duty striven ? 

What hast thou learned by field and 
hill. 

By greenwood path, and by singing 
rill '? 

There will come an eve to a longer 

day, 
That will find thee tired — but not of 

play? 
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest 

now. 
With drooping limbs and aching 

brow, 
And wish the shadows would faster 

creep. 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
AVell \vere it then if thine aching 

bi-ow 
Were as free from sin and shame as 

now ! 

Well for thee if thy lip could tell 

A tale like this of a day spent 
well ; 

If thine open hand hath relieved dis- 
tress. 

If thy j)ity hath sprung to wretched- 
ness; 

If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 

And humbled thy heart with peni- 
tence; 

If Nature's voices have spoken to 
thee 

With her holy meanings eloquently ; 

If every creature hath won thy love. 
From the creeping worm to the brood- 
ing dove ; 
If never a sad, low-spoken word 
Hath plead with thy human heart 
unheard, — 



Then, when the night steals on, as 

now. 
It will bring relief to thine aching 

brow. 
And, with joy and jieace at the 

thought of rest. 
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy 

motlier's breast. 



THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION 
OF HIS CLASS. 

Ye've gathered to your place of 
prayer 

With slow and measured tread : 
Your ranks are full, your mates all 
there — 

But the soul of one has fled. 
He was the proudest in his strength. 

The manliest of ye all; 
Why lies he at that fearf u.l length. 

And ye around his pall ? 

Ye reckon it in days, since he 

Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
With his dark eye flashing gloriously, 

And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
Oh, had it been but told you then. 

To mark wliose lamp was dim — 
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped 
men. 

Would ye have singled him ? 

Whose was the sinewy arm that flung 

Defiance to the ring ? 
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — 

Yet not for glorying ? 
AVhose heart, in generous deed and 
thought. 

No rivalry might brook. 
And yet distinction claiming not ? 

There lies he — go and look! 

On now — his requiem is done. 

The last deep prayer is said — 
On to his burial, conn-ades — on, 

With a friend and brother dead! 
Slow — for it presses heavily — 

It is a man ye bear! 
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 

On the gallant sleeper there. 



WILLIS. 



653 



Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have 
laid 

His dark locks on his brow — 
Like life — save deeper light and 
shade : 

We'll not disturb them now. 
Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 

That blue-veined eyelid's sleep, 
Hiding the eye, death left so dull — 

Its shimber we will keep. 

Eest now ! his journeying is done — 

Your feet are on his sod — 
Death's blow has felled your cham- 
pion — 

He waiteth here his God. 
Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 

To be heart-broken here — 
For the grave of one, the best of us, 

Is watered by the tear. 



ro GIULIA GUIS I. 

AFTER HEARING HER IN "ANNA BO- 
LENA." 

"When the rose is brightest, 

Its bloom will soonest die; 
When burns the meteor l)rightest, 

'Twill vanish from the sky. 
If Death but wait until delight 

O'errun the heart, like wine. 
And break the cup when brimming 

qtiite, 
1 die — for thou hast poured to-night 

The last drop into mine. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 
'Twas near the twilight-tide — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her 
feet, 

And Honor charmed the air; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair — 
For all God ever gave to her 

yiie kept with chary care. 



She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true — 

For her heart was cold to all but 
gold. 
And the rich came not to woo — 

But honored well are charms to sell 
If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more 
fair — 
A slight girl, lily-pale; 
And she had Unseen company 
To make the spirit quail — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked 
forlorn, 
xVnd nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray; 
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved 
in air. 
Her womafi's heart gave way! — 
But the sin forgiven by Christ in 
heaven 
By man is cursed alway ! 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 

Ox the cross-beam under the Old 

South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded 

well. 
In summer and winter that bird is 

there. 
Out and in with the morning air: 
I love to see him track the street. 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy M'ings, 
Till across the dial his shade has 

passed. 
And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding 

note. 
And the trembling throb in its mot- 
tled throat; 
There's a human look in its swelling 

breast. 
And the gentle curve of its lowly 

crest; 
And 1 often stop with the fear I feel — 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 



G54 



WILLIS. 



Whatever is rung on that noisv 

bell — 
Chime of the hour or funeral knell — 
The dove in the belfry must hear it 

well. 
When the tongue swings out to the 

midnight moon — 
When the sexton cheerily rings for 

noon — 
AVhen the clock strikes clear at morn- 
ing light, 
When the child is waked with '• nine 

at night ■' — 
When the chimes jilay soft in the 

Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer; 
Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 
He broods on his folded feet unstirred. 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
He takes the time to smooth his breast. 
Then drops again with tilmed eyes. 
And sleeps as the last vihration dies. 

Sweet bird ! 1 would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee! 
AVitli wings to fly to wood and glen. 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast M'ith men; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
1 tread, like thee, the crowded street; 
But, unlike thee, when day is o'er, 
Thou canst dismiss the world and 

soar. 
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy 

breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 



FROM '^ ABSALOM." 

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou 
shouidst die! 
Thou, who wert made so beauti- 
fully fair! 
That Death should settle in thy glo- 
I'ious eye, 
And leave his stillness in this clus- 
tering hair! 



How could he mark thee for the silent 
tomb ? 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am 
chill, 
As to my bosom I have t ricd to picss 
thee ! 
How was 1 \\ont to feel mv pulses 
thrill. 
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
caress thee. 
And hear thy sweet ' my father ! ' 
from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

'■ But death is on thee. I shall hear 
the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the 
young; 
And life will pass me in the mantling 
blush. 
And the dark tresses to the soft 
M'inds flung; — 
But thou no more, with thy sweet 
voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

"And oh! when I am stricken, and 
my heart. 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be 
broken. 
How will its love for thee, as I depart. 
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last 
deep token ! 
It were so sweet, amid death's gath- 
ering gloom. 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to 
give thee up. 
With death so like a gentle slum- 
ber on thee ; — 
And thy dark sin! — Oh! I could 
drink the cup. 
If from this woe its bitterness had 
won thee. 
May God have called thee, like a wan- 
derer, home, 
My lost boy, Absalom!" 



FORCEYTHE WiLLSON. 

THE OLD SERGEANT. 

" Come a little nearer, doctor, — thank yon, — let me take the cup; 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — just another little sup! 
May be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used up, — 
Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a going up! 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try '' — 
" Never say that." said the surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; 
" It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die! " 

" What you say will make no difference, doctor, when you come to die. 

'• Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very faint, they say; 
You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I been away ? " 
" Not that anybody knows of ! " " Doctor. — Doctor, please to stay! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay! 

'■ I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted "? — but it couldn't ha' been so. — 
For as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloli. 

I've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh! 

" This is all that I remember: The last time the lighter came. 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same. 
He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name : 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — just that way it called my name. 

" And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, 
Knew it couldn't be the lighter. — he could not have spoken so, — 
And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir! ' but I couldn't make it go; 
For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go! 

" Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore: 
Just another foolish grapevine, — and it Mon't come any more; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before : 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — even plainer than before: 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, 
And I stood beside the river, where we stood that Sunday night, 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark l)luffs opposite. 
When the river was perdition and all hell Mas opposite! 

" And the same old palpitation came again in all its power. 
And I heard a bugle sounding, as from some celestial tower; 
And the same mysterious voice said: ' It is the eleventh hour! 
Oi'derly Sei-geant — Robert Burton — it is the eleventh hour ! ' 

" Doctor Austin ! what day is this ? " " It is Wednesday night, you know." 
" Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good time l)elow! 
What time is it. Doctor Austin ? " " Nearly tM'elve." *' Then don't you go ! 
Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago ? 



656 WILLSON. 



" There was where the gunboats opened on the dark rebelHous host; 
And where Webster seniicircled his last guns upon the coast ; 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost, — 
And the same old transport came and took me over — or its ghost ! 

" And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; 
There was where they fell on Prentiss, — there McClernand met the tide; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlljurt's heroes died, — 
Lower down, where AVallace charged them, and kept charging till he died. 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin. 
There was Mhere old Nelson thundered, and where liousseau waded in; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and mc all began to win. — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win. 

" Now a shrond of snow and silence over everything was spread; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, 
I should not. have even doubted, to this moment, I was dead. — 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead ! 

"Death and silence! — Death and silence! all aroimd me as I sped! 
And behold, a mighty tower, as if builded to the dead. 
To the heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head. 

Till the Stars and Stripes of heaven all seemed waving from its head ! 

" Round and mighty-based it towered, — up into the infinite, — 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright ; 
For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding-stair of light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight ! 

" And, behold, as I approached it, with a rapt and dazzled stare, — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great stair, 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke, of — ' Halt, and who goes there!' 
' Fni a friend,' I said, ' if you are.' ' Then advance, sir, to the stair! ' 

"I advanced! That sentry, doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne! — 
Fii'st of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line! — 
'Welcome, my old sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!' 
And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine! 

" As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; 
But he smiled and "pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive; 
' That's the way, sir, to headquarters.' What headquarters ? • Of the brave.' 
' But the great tower ? ' ' That,' he answered, ' is the way, sir, of the 
brave ! ' 

"■ Then a sudden shame came o'er me, at his uniform of light; 
At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright: 
' Ah ! ' said he, ' you have f oi'gotten the new imiform to-night, — 
Hun-y back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!' 

" And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I — 
Doctor, — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — God bless you all ! Good-by ! 
Doctor, please to give my nuisket and my kna])sack, when I die. 
To my son — my son that's coming, — he won't get here till 1 die ! 



" Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before, — 
And to carry that old musket " — Hark! a knock is at the door! — 
" Till the Union " — See ! it opens ! — " Father ! Father! speak once more ! " 
" Bless you! "' gasped the old, gray sergeant, and he lay and said no more! 



JcHN Wilson ^Christopher North.) 



THE EVENING CLOUD. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting 

sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided 

snow : 
Long had I watched the glory moving 

on 
O'er the still radiance of the lake 

below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated 

slow ! 
Even in its very motion there was 

rest; 
While every breath of eve that 

chanced to blow 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous 

\\est. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed 

soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of 

bliss is given; 
And by the breath of mercy made to 

roll 
Right onwards to the golden gates of 

heaven, 
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful 

lies. 
And tells to man his glorious desti- 
nies. 



[From the Isle of Palms.'] 
THE SHIPWRECK. 

But list ! a low and moaning sound 
At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 
And now it reigns above, aromul, 
As if it called the ship along. 
The moon is sunk; and a clouded 

Sray 
Declares that her course is run, 



And like a god who brings the day, 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 

Soon as his light has warmed the 

seas, 
From the parting cloud fi'esh blows 

the breeze; 
And that is the spirit whose well- 
known song 
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 
No fears hath she ; her giant form 
O'er wrathful surge, through black- 
ening storm. 
Majestically calm would go 
'Mid the deep darkness white as 

snow ! 
But gently now the small waves 

glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's 

side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her 

array. 
The main she will traverse for ever 

and aye. 
^lany ports will exult at the gleam 

of her mast ; — 
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this 

hour is her last. 
Five hundred souls in one instant of 

dread 
Are hurried o'er the deck; 
And fast the miserable ship 
Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
Her keel hath struck on a hidden 

rock. 
Her' planks are torn asunder, 
And down come her masts with a 

reeling shock. 
And a hideous crash like thunder. 
Her sails are draggled in the brine. 

That glatldened late the skies, 
And her pennant, that kissed the fair 

moonshine, 
Down many a fathom lies. 



Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow 
hues 
Gleamed softly from below, 
And flung a warm and sunny flush 
O'er the Avreaths of murmuring 
snow, 
To the coral-rock are hurrying down. 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their 

own. 
Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 
And sights of home with sighs dis- 
turbed 
The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
Instead of the murmur of tlie sea, 
The sailor heard the humming-tree 

Alive tlirough all its leaves, 
The hum of the spi-eading sycamore 
That grows before Ins cottage door, 
And the swallow's song in the 
eaves. 
His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 
Who listened with tears of sorrow 
and joy 
To the dangers his father had 
passed ; 
And his wife — by turns she wept 
and smiled, 



As she looked on the father of her 
child, 
Returned to her heart at last. 
He wakes at the vessel's sudden 

roll 
And the rush of waters is in his 

soul. 
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly 
faces ; 
The whole ship's crew are there! 
Wailing around and overhead. 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 
And madness and despair. 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare, 
Unbroken as the floating air; 
The ship hath melted quite away. 
Like a struggling dream at break of 

day. 
Xo image meets my wandering eye, 
But the new-risen sun and the sunny 

sky. 
Though the night-shades are gone, 

yet a vapor dull 
Bedims the waves so beautiful: 
While a low and melancholy moan 
Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 



William Winter. 



THE WHITE FLAG. 

Brino poppies for a weary mind 
That saddens in a senseless din, 

And let my spirit leave behind 
A world of riot and of sin, — 

In action's torpor deaf and blind. 

Bring poppies — that I may forget! 

Bring poppies — that I may not 
leai'n! 
But bid the audacious sun to set. 

And bid the peaceful starlight burn 
O'er biu'ied memory and regret. 

Then will the slumberous grasses grow 
Above the bed wherein I sleep; 

While winds 1 love will softly blow, 
And dews I love will softly weep. 

O'er rest and silence hid beiovi% 



Bring poppies, — for this work is 
vain ! 

I cannot mould the clay of life. 
A stronger hand must grasp the rein, 

A stouter arm annul the strife. 
A braver heart defy the pain. 

Youth was my friend, — but Youth 
had wings. 

And he has flown unto the day. 
And left me. in a night of things. 

Bewildered, on a lonesome way. 
And careless what the future brings. 

Let there be sleep! nor any more 
The noise of useless deed or word : 

While the free spirit hovers o'er 
A sea where not a sound is heard — 

A sea of dreams, without a shore. 



WINTER. 



659 



Dark Angel, counselling defeat, 
1 see thy mournful, tender eyes: 

I hear thy voice, so faint, so sweet, 
And very dearly should I prize 

Thy perfect peace, thy rest complete. 

But is it rest to vanish hence, 

To mix w ith earth, or sea, or air ? 

Is death indeed a full defence 
Against the tyranny of care ? 

Or is it cruellest pretence ? 

And, if an hour of peace draws nigh, 
Shall we, who know the arts of war, 

Turn from the field and basely fly. 
Nor take what fate reserves us for, 

Because we dream 'twere sw-eet to 
die? 

What shall the untried warriors do. 
If we, the battered veterans, fail ? 

How strive, and suffer, and be true. 
In storms that make our spirits 
quail. 

Except our valor lead them through ? 

Though for ourselves we droop and 
tire, 

Let us at least for them be strong. 
'Tis but to bear familiar fire: 

Life at the longest is not long. 
And peace at last will crown desire. 

So Death, T will not hear thee speak! 

But I will labor — and endure 
All storms of pain that time can 
wreak. 

IVly flag be white because 'tis )nu-e. 
And not because my soul is weak ! 



HOMAGE. 

White daisies on the meadow green 
Present thy beauteous form to me : 
Peaceful and joyful these are seen. 

And peace and joy encompass thee. 
I watch them, where they dance and 

shine. 
And love them — for their charm is 
thine. 



Red roses o'er the woodland brook 
Kemember me thy lovely face : 

So blushing and so fresh its look, 
So wild and shy its radiant grace! 

I kiss them, in their coy retreat. 

And think of lips more soft and 
sweet. 

Gold arrows of the merry morn, 
Shot swiftly over orient seas; 

Gold tassels of the bending corn 
That ripple in the August breeze ; 

Thy wildering smile, thy glorious 
hair, 

And all thy power and state declare. 

White, red, and gold — the awful 
crown 
Of beauty and of virtue too ! 
From what a height those eyes look 
down 
On him who proudly dares to sire ! 
Yet, free from self as God from sin, 
Is love that loves, nor asks to win. 

Let me but love thee in the flower, 
The wavjng grass, the dancing 
Avave, 
The fragrant pomp of garden boAver, 

The violet of the nameless grave. 
Sweet dreams by night, sweet 

thoughts by day, — 
And time shall tire ere love decay! 

Let me but love thee in the glow 
When morning on the ocean shines. 

Or in the mighty winds that blow. 
Snow-laden, through the mountain 
pines — 

In all that's fair, or grand or dread, 

And all shall die ere love be dead ! 



AFTER ALL. 

The apples are ripe in the orchard. 
The work of the reaper is done. 

And the golden woodlands redden 
In the blood of the dying sun. 

At the cottage-door the grandsire 
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair. 

While a gentle wind of twilight 
Plavs with his silver hair. 



A woman is kneeling beside him; 

A fair young head is prest. 
In the first wilil passion of sorrow, 

Against his aged breast. 

And far from over the distance 
The faUering echoes come. 

Of tlie flying blast of trumpet 
And the rattling roll of ilruni. 

Then the grandsire speaks, in a whis- 
per, — 
' ' The end no man can see ; 
But we give him to his country. 
And we give our prayers to 
Thee."^ 

The violets star the meadows. 
The rosebuds fringe the door, 

And over the grassy orchard 
The pink-white blossoms pour. 

But the grandsire' s chair is empty. 
The cottage is dark and still. 

There's a nameless grave in the bat- 
tle-field, 
And a new one under the hill. 

And a pallid, tearless woman 
By the cold hearth sits alone; 

And the old clock in the corner 
Ticks on with a steadv drone. 



THE QUESTION. 

Becal'sp; love's sigh is but a sigh. 
Doth it the less love's heart dis- 
close ? 
Because the rose must fade and die. 

Is it the less the lovely rose ? 
Because black night must shroud the 

day. 
Shall the brave sun no more be gay ? 

Because chill autumn frights the 
birds. 
Shall we distrust that spring will 
come ? 
Because sweet words are only words, 

Shall love forevermore be ilumb ? 
Because our bliss is fleeting bliss. 
Shall we who love forbear to kiss ? 



Because those eyes of gentle mirth 
Must some time cease my heart to 
thrill. 

Because the sweetest voice on earth 
Sooner or later must be still. 

Because its idol is unsure. 

Shall my strong love the less endure '? 

Ah, no! let lovers breathe their 
sighs. 
And roses bloom, and music soimd. 
And passion burst on lips and eyes. 
And pleasure's merry world go 
rounil : 
Let golden sunshine flood the sky, 
And let me love, or let me die ! 



WITHERED ROSES. 

Not made by worth, nor marred by 
flaw. 
Not won by good, nor lost by ill. 
Love is its own and only law. 

And lives and dies by its own will. 
It was our fate, and not our sin, 
That we should love, and love should 
win. 

Not bound by oath, nor stayed by 
prayer. 
Nor held by thirst of strong desire. 
Love lives like fragrance in the air. 

And dies as breaking waves expire. 
'Twas death, not falsehood, bade us 

part, — 
The death of love that broke my heart. 

Not kind, as dreaming poets think, 
Nor merciful, as sages say — 

Love heeds not where its victims 
sink, 
"\Mien once its passion ebbs away. 

'Twas nature — it was not disdain — 

That made thee careless of my pain. 

Not thralled by law, nor ruled by 
right. 
Love keeps no audit with the skies; 
Its star, that once is quenched in 
night. 
Has set — and never more will rise. 
My soul is lost, by thee forgot; 
And there's no heaven w^ere thou 
art not. 



But happy he, though scathed and 
lone, 
Who sees afar love's fading wings — 
Whose seared and blighted heart has 
known 
The splendid agony it brings! 
No life that is, no life to be 
("an ever take the Past from me! 

lied roses bloom for other lives — 
Your withered leaves alone are 
mine; 
Yet. not for all that Time survives 
Would I your heavenly gift re- 
sign — 
Now cold and dead, once warm and 

true. 
The love that lived and died in you. 



THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 

What though 1 sing no other song? 
What though 1 speak no other 
word ? 
Is silence shame ? Is patience 
wrong ? — 
At least one song of mine was 
heard : 

One echo from the mountain air. 
One ocean murmur, glad and free — 

One sign that nothing grand or fair, 
In ail this world was lost to me. 

I will not wake the sleeping lyre; 
I will not strain the chords of 
thought : 
The sweetest fruit of all desire 
Comes its own way, and comes un- 
sought. 

Though all the bards of earth were 
dead. 

And all their music passed away. 
What nature wishes should be said 

She'll find the rightful voice to say! 

Iler heart is in the shimmering leaf. 
The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 

And all we know of bliss or grief 
She speaks, in forms that cannot 
die. 



The mountain peaks that shine afar. 
The silent stars, the i)athless sea, 

Are living signs of all we are, 
And types of all we hope to be. 



./ DUtGK. 
IX Mli.MOIiV OF POE. 

Cold is the paean honor sings, 
And chill is glory's icy breath. 

And pale the garland memory brings 
To grace the iron doors of death. 

Fame's echoing thunders, long and 

loud. 

The pomp of pride that decks the 

pall. 

The plaudits of the vacant crowd — 

One word of love is worth them all ! 

With dew of grief our eyes are dim: 
Ah, bid the tear of sorrow start; 

And honor, in ourselves and him. 
The great and tender human heart! 

Through many a night of want and 
woe 
His frenzied spirit wandered wild. 
Till kind disaster laid him low. 
And love reclaimed its wayward 
child. 

Through many a year his fame has 
grown. — 
Like midnight, vast; like starlight, 
sweet, — 
Till now his genius fills a throne. 
And homage makes his realm com- 
plete. 

One meed of justice, long delayed. 
One crowning grace his virtues 
crave ! 
Ah, take, thou great and injured 
shade. 
The love that sanctifies the grave. 

And may thy spirit, hovering nigh. 
Pierce the dense cloud of darkness 
through. 
And know, with fame that cannot 
die, 
Thou hast the world's compassion 
too! 



m'2 



WITHER. 



George Wither. 



HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MAR- 
RIAGE DAYS. 

Lord, living here are we — 

As fast united yet 
As when our hands and hearts bv 
Thee 

Together first were knit. 
And iu a thankful song 

Now sing we will Thy jjraise, 
For that Thou dost as well prolong 

Our loving, as our days. 

Together we have now 

Begun another year; 
But how much time Thou wilt allow 

Thou makest it not appear. 
AVe, therefore, do implore 

That live and love we may. 
Still so as if but one day more 

Together we should stay. 

Let each of other's wealth 

Preserve a faithful care. 
And of each otlier's joy and health 

As if one soul we were. 
Such conscience let us make, 

Each other not to grieve. 
As if we daily were to take 

Our everlasting leave. 

The frowardness that springs 

From our corrupted kind. 
Or from those troublous outward 
things 

Which may distract the mind, 
Permit Thou not, O Lord, 

Our constant love to shake — 
Or to disturb our true accord, 

Or make our hearts to ache. 

But let these frailties prove 

Affection's exercise; 
And let discretion teach our love 

Which wins the noblest prize. 
So time, which wears away. 

And ruins all things else. 
Shall fix our love on Thee for aye, 

In whom perfection dwells. 



FROM "POVERTY:-' 

The works my calling doth propose, 

Let me not idly shun ; 
For he whom idleness undoes. 

Is more than twice undone; 
If my estate enlarge 1 may, 

Enlarge my love for Thee; 
And though I more and more decay, 

Yet let me thankful be. 

For be we poor or be we rich, 

If well employed we arc. 
It neither helps nor hinders much. 

Things needful to prepare; 
Since God disposeth riches now. 

As manna heretofore. 
The feeblest gatherer got enow, 

The strongest got no more. 

Nor poverty nor M'ealth is that 

Whereby we may acquire 
That bleS'Sed and most happy state, 

AVhei-eto we should aspire ; 
But if Thy Spirit make me wise. 

And strive to do my best. 
There may be in the Morst of these 

A means of being blessed. 

The rich in love obtain from Thee 

Thy special gifts of gi'ace ; 
The poor in spirit those men be 

Who shall behold Thy face: 
Loi'd ! grant I may be one of these. 

Thus poor, or else thus rich ; 
E'en whether of the two Thou please, 

I care not greatly which. 



FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW. 

How near me came the hand of 

death, 
AVhen at my side he struck my dear. 
And took away the precious breath 
AVhicli quickened my beloved peer! 
How helpless am I thereby made — 
By day how grieved, by night how 
sad 
And now my life's delight is gone, 
Alas ! how am I left alone ! 



WITHER. 



663 



The voice which I did more esteem 
Than music in her sweetest key, 
Those eyes wliicli unto me did seem 
More comfortable than the day — 

Tliose now by me, as they have 
been ! 

Sliall never more be heard or seen ; 
But wliat I once enjoyed in tliem 
Sliall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus — 
So little hold of them have we 
That we from them or they from ixs 
May in a moment ravished be ; 
Yet we are neither just nor wise 
If present mercies we despise, 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful use of what we had. 

I therefore do not so bemoan, 
Though these beseeming tears I drop, 
The loss of my beloved one 
As they that are deprived of hope; 
But in expressing of my grief 
My heart receiveth some relief, 
And joyeth in the good I had, 
Although my sweets are bitter made. 

Lord, keep me faithful to the trust 
Which my dear spouse reposed in me ! 
To him now dead preserve me just 
In all that should performed be; 
For though oiu- being man and wife 
Extendetli only to this life, 
Yet neither life nor death should end 
The being of a faithful f rienil. 

Those helps which I through him en- 
joyed, 
Let Thy continual aid supply — 
That, though some hopes in him are 

void, 
I always may on Thee rely; 
And whether I shall wed again, 
Or in a single' state remain, 



Unto Thine honor let it be, 
And for a blessing unto me. 



FOn A SERVANT. 

Discourage not thyself, my soul, 
Nor murnuu-, though compelled we be 
To live subjected to control ! 
When many others may be free ; 
For though the pride of some dis- 
dains 
Our mean and nuich despised lot. 
We shall not lose our honest pains, 
Xor shall our sufferance be forgot. 

To be a servant is not base. 

If baseness be not in the mind, 

For servants make but good the place, 

Whereto their Maker them assigned: 

The greatest princes do no more. 

And if sincerely I obey. 

Though I am now despised and poor, 

I shall become as great as they. 

The Lord of heaven and earth was 

pleased 
A servant's form to undertake; 
By His endurance I am eased. 
And serve with gladness for His sake: 
Though checked unjustly I should be. 
With silence I reproofs Mill bear. 
For much more injured was He 
Whose deeds most worthy praises 

were. 

He was reviled, yet navight replied. 
And I will imitate the same; 
For though some faults may be de- 
nied. 
In part I always faulty am : 
Content with meek and humble heart, 
I will abide in my degree. 
And act an humble servant's part. 
Till God shall call me to be free. 




(564 



WULCOT— WOLFE. 



John Wolcot (Peter Pindar). 



TO MY CANDLE. 



Thou lone companion of the spec- 
tred night ! 

I wake amid thy friendly Avatchful 
light. 
To steal a precious hour from life- 
less sleep. 

Hark, the wild uproar of the winds ! 
and hark! [the dark, 

Hell's genius roams the regions of 
And swells the thundering horrors 
of the deep ! 

From cloud to cloud the pale moon 
hurrying flies, 

Now blackened, and now flashing 

through the skies ; [beam. 

But all is silence here, beneath thy 

I own 1 lal)or for the voice of praise — 
For who would sink in dull obliv- 
ion's stream ? 

Who would not live in songs of dis- 
tant days ? 



How slender now, alas! thy thread 
of fire ! 

All! falling — falling — ready to ex- 
pire ! 

In vain thy struggles, all will soon be 
o'er. 

At life thou snatchest with an eager 
leap; 

Now round I see thy flame so feeble 
creep. 
Faint, lessening, quivering, glim- 
mering, now no more ! 

Thus shall the suns of science sink 
away. 
And thus of beauty fade the fairest 
flower — 

For Where's the giant who to Time 
shall say, 
"Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy 
power! *' 



Charles Wolfe. 



TO MARY. 

If I had thought thou couldst have 
died, 

I might not weep for thee; 
But I forgot, when by thy side. 

That thou couldst mortal be: 
It never through my mind had passed 

Tlie time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last. 

And thou shouldst smile no more! 

And still upon that face I look. 
And think 'twill smile again; 

And still the thought I wilTnot brook, 
Tliat 1 must look in vain ! 

But when 1 speak, thou dost not say 
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 



And now I feel, as well I may, 
Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art. 

All cold and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I 
have, 

Thou seemest still mine own; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am noAV alone ! 

I do not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this 
heart. 

In thinking too of thee: 



WOLFE. 



GG5 



Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
Of light ne'er seen before, 

As fancy never could have drawn, 
And never can restore ! 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral 
note. 
As his corse to the rampart we 
hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell 
shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of 
night, 
The sods with our bayonets turn- 
ing; 
By the struggling moonbeams' misty 
light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound 

him; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his 

rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we 
said, 
And we spoke not a word of sor- 
row ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face 
of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the 
morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his nar- 
row bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pil- 
low. 
That the foe and the stranger would 
tread o'er his liead. 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 

gone, I him; 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid 



But little he'll reck, if they let him 
sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has 
laid him! 

But half of our heavy task was done. 
When the clock struck the hour 
for retiring; 
And we heard the distant and ran- 
dom gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
From the field of his fame fresh 
and gory! 
We carved not a line, and we raised 
not a stone. 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



GO. FORGET ME. 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 

O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 
Go, forget me — and to-morrow 

Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 
Smile — though I shall not be near 

thee. 
Sing, though I shall never hear thee ; 
May thy soul with pleasure shine 
Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the sun, thy presence glowing. 

Clothes tlie meanest things in light; 
And when thou, like him, art going. 

Loveliest objects fade in night. 
All things looked so bright aliout 

thee, 
That they nothing seem without 
thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too, refined. 

Go. thou vision, wildly gleaming. 

Softly on my soul that fell; 
Go, for me no longer beaming — 
Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
Go, and all that once delighted 
Take, and leave me ail benighted — 
Glory's burning, genei'ous swell, 
Fancy, and the poet's shell. 



WOODWORTH— WORDSWORTH. 



Samuel Woodworth. 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes 
of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them 
to view! — 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
tangled wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my in- 
fancy knew! 

The wide-spreading pond, and the 
mill that stood hy it; 

The bridge, and the rock where the 
cataract fell ; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house 
nigh it; 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung 
in the well — [bucket. 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

The moss-covered bucket which hung 
in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as 

a treasure ; 
For often at noon, Avhen returned 

from the field, 
I foiuid it the source of an exquisite 

pleasure — 
The purest and sweetest that nature 

can yield 
How ardent I seized it, with hands 

that were glowing. 



And quick to the white-pebbled bot- 
tom it fell ! 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth 
overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose 
from the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket, arose from 
the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy 

brim to receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to 

my lips! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could 

tempt me to leave it. 
The brightest that beauty or revelry 

sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved 

habitation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively 

swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plan- 
tation. 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs 

in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket that hangs 

in the well ! 



William Wordsworth. 



[From Lines Compnued a Few Miles Above 
Tinteni Abbey.] 

THE SOLACE OF NATURE. 

Though absent lon^,, 
These forms of beauty have not been 

to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's 

eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid 

the din 
Of tOM-ns and cities, T have owed to 

them. 



In hours of weariness, sensations 

sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the 

heart ; 
And passing even into my purer 

mind. 
With tranquil restoration: feelings 

too 
Of unremembered pleasure; such, 

perhaps. 
As may have had no trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's 

life. 




THE OLD 



Page 666. 



WORDSWORTH. 



His little, nameless, unremembered 

acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, 

1 trust, 
To them I may have owed another 

gift, 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 

mood, 
In which the burden of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary 

weight 
Of all this unintelligible world 
Is lightened ; that serene and blessed 

mood, 
In which the affections gently lead 

us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal 

frame, • 

And even the motion of our human 

blood. 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the 

power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of 

joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

I have learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the 
hour 

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing 
oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity. 

Not harsh nor grating, thougli of 
ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have 
felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the 
Joy 

Of elevated thoughts: a sense sub- 
lime 

Of something far more deeply inter- 
fused , 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting 
suns. 

And the round ocean and the living 
air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind 
of man: 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all 
thought. 

And rolls through all things. 



[From Lines Composed a Fetv Miles Above 
Tintern Abbei/.] 

APOSTROPHE TO THE POET'S 
SIS TEli. 

Thou art with me, here, upon the 
banks 

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest 
friend. 

My dear, dear friend, and in thy 
voice I catch 

The language of my former heart, 
and read 

My former pleasures in the shooting 
lights 

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little 
while 

May I behold in thee what I was 
once, 

My dear, dear sister! And this 
prayer I make. 

Knowing that Nature never did be- 
tray 

The heart that loved her: 'tis her 
privilege. 

Through all the years of this our 
life, to lead 

From joy to joy : for she can so in- 
form 

The mind that is within us, so im- 
press 

With quietness and beauty, and so 
feed 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 
tongues. 

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of 
seltish men. 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, 
nor all 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or dis- 
turb 

Our cheerful faith that all which we 
behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let 
the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitaiy walk: 

And let the misty mountain winds be 
fi'ee 

To blow against thee: and, in after 
years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be 
matured 

Into a sober pleashre, when thy mind 



668 



WORDSWORTH. 



Sliall be a mansion for all lovely 

forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; 

oh, then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what 

healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember 

me, 
And these my exhortations! nor, 

perchance, 
If I should be v/liere I no more can 

hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild 

eyes these gleams 
Of past existence, wilt thou then 

forget 
That on the banks of this delightful 

stream 
We stood together; and that I, so 

long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came. 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 
With warmer love; oh, with far 

deeper zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then 

forget, 
That after many wandeiings, many 

years 
Of absence, these steep woods and 

lofty cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape, 

were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and 

for thy sake. 



[Frnni The Excursion.] 
THE PROP OF FAITH. 

One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists — one only — an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, 

however 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a 

Being 
Of infinite Ijenevolence and power, 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to 

good. 
The darts of anguish fix not where 

the seat • 



Of suffering hath been thoroughly 
fortified 

By acquiescence in the Will supreme, 

For time and for eternity — by faith, 

Faith absolute in God, including 
hope. 

And the defence that lies in Ijound- 
less love 

Of His perfections; with habitual 
dread 

Of aught unworthily conceived, en- 
dured 

Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone 

To the dishonor of His holy name. 

Soul of our souls, and safeguard of 
the world, 

Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of 
heart ! . 

Restore Iheir languid spirits, and re- 
call 

Their lost affections unto Thee and 
Thine! 



[From The Excursion.] 
UNDEVELOPED GEKIUS. 

Oh, many are the poets that are 

sown 
By Nature! men endowed with high- 
est gifts — 
The vision, and the faculty divine — 
Yet wanting the accomplishment of 

verse 
(Which in the docile season of their 

youth 
It was denied them to acquire, 

through lack 
Of culture and the inspiring aid of 

books ; 
Or haply by a temper too severe; 
Or a nice backwardness afraid of 

shame). 
Nor, having e'er as life advanced, 

been led 
By circumstance to take unto the 

height 
The measure of themselves, these 

favored beings. 
All but a scattered few, live out their 

time. 
Husbanding that which they possess 

within. 



WORDSWORTH. 



669 



And go to the grave unthought of. 

Strongest minds 
Are often those of whom the noisy 

world hears least. 



IFrom The Excursion.] 
THE DEAF DALESMAN. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of 

whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at 

eve, 
Oft stretches towards me, like a long 

straight path 
Traced faintly in the greensward; 

there beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman 

lies, 
Fi'om whom, in early childhood, was 

withdrawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He 

grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of 

soul ; 
And this deep mountain valley was 

to him 
Somidless, with all its streams. The 

binl of dawn 
Did never rouse tliis cottager from 

sleep 
With startling summons; nor for his 

delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for 

him 
Murmured the laboring bee. When 

stormy winds 
Were working the broad bosom of 

the lake 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling 

waves, 
Hocking the trees, or driving cloud 

on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty 

crags, 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a jiicture : evermore 
Were all things silent, wheresoe'er 

he moved ; 
Yet, by the solace of his own pnre 

tlioughts 
Upheld, he duteously pursued the 

round 



Of rural labors; the steep mountain- 
side 
Ascended, with liis staff and faithful 

dog; 
The plough he guided, and the scythe 

he swayed; 
And the ripe corn before his sickle 

fell 
Among the jocund reapers. For 

himself. 
All watchful and industrious as he 

was. 
He wrought not; neither flock nor 

field he owned ; 
Xo wish for wealth had place within 

his mind; 
Nor husband's love, nor father's hope 

or care. 
Though born a younger brotlier, need 

was none 
That from the floor of his paternal 

home 
He should depart to plant himself 

anew ; 
And when, mature in manhood, lie 

beheld 
His parents laid in earth, no loss en- 
sued 
Of rights to him; but he remained 

well pleased. 
By tlie pure bond of independent 

love, 
An inmate of a second family. 
Tlie fellow-laborer and friend of him 
To whom the small inheritance had 

fallen. 
Nor deem tliat his mild presence was 

a weight 
That pressed upon his brother's 

house, for books 
Were ready comrades whom he could 

not tire. 
Of whose society the blameless man 
Was never satiate. Their familiar 

voice. 
Even to old age, with unabated 

charm 
Beguiled his leisure hours, refreslied 

his thoughts; 
Beyond its natural elevation, raised 
His introverted spirit, and bestowed 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark 

winter night. 




The stormy day, had each its own 

resource ; 
Song of tlie muses, sage historic tale, 
Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
Announcing immortality and joy 
To the assembled spirits of the just, 
From imperfection and decay secure. 
Thus sootlied at home, thus busy in 

the field. 
To no perverse suspicion he gave 

way, 
No languor, peevishness, nor vain 

complaint : 
And they, who were about him, did 

not fail 
In reverence, or in courtesy; they 

prized 
His gentle manners; and his peaceful 

smiles. 
The gleams of his slow-varying coun- 
tenance. 
Were met with answering sym^jathy 

and love. 

At length, when sixty years and 
five were told, 

A slow disease insensibly consumed 

The powers of nature; and a few 
short steps 

Of friends and kindred bore him 
from his home 

(Yon cottage shaded by the woody 
crags) 

To the profounder stillness of the 
grave. 

Nor was his funeral denied the grace 

Of many tears, virtuous and thought- 
ful grief ; 

Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by grat- 
itude. 

And now that monumental stone pre- 
serves 

His name, and unambitiously relates 

How long, and by what kindly out- 
Mard aids, 

And in what pure contentedness of 
mind. 

The sad privation was by him en- 
dured. 

And yon tall i^ine-tree, whose com- 
posing sound 

Was wasted on the good man's living 
ear. 

Hath now its own peculiar sanctity; 



And, at the touch of every wander- 
ing breeze, 

Mvu'murs, not idly, o'er his peaceful 
erave. 



FROM "IXTIMATIOyS OF IMMOR- 
TALITY." 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forget- 
ting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's 
star, 
Hatli had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar; 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we 
come 
From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to 
close 
Upon the growing boy. 
But he beholds the light, and M'hence 
it Hows, 

He sees it in his joy; 
The youth, who daily farther from 
the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priesl, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 
At length the man perceives it die 

away, 
And fade into the light of common 
day. 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me 

doth breed 
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed 
For that which is most Avorthy to be 

blessed ; 
Delight and libeity, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at 

rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering 
in his l)reast : 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 



WORD SWOB TE. 



071 



But for those obstinate question- 
ings 
Of sense and outward things, 
FalUngs from us, vanishings; 
Black misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our 

mortal natiue 
Did tremble like a guilty thing sur- 
prised ! 
But for those first affections. 
Those sliadowy recollections, 
Wliich, be they wliat they may. 
Are yet the fountain liglit of all our 

day, 
Are yet a master light of all our 
seeing; 
Uphold us — cherisli — and have 
power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the 

being 
Of the eternal silence: truths that 
wake. 
To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad 
endeavor, 
Xor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 
Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Thougli inland far we be. 
Our souls have siglit of that immor- 
tal sea 
Wliicli brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the 

sliore. 
And hear the inighty waters rolling 
evermore. 



TO A YOUXG LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG 
WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

Dp:ar child of nature, let them 

rail ! 
— There is a nest in a green dale, 
A harbor and a hold. 
Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt 

see 
Tliy own delightful days, and be 
A light to voung and old. 



There, healthy as a shepherd-boy. 
As if thy lieritage were joy. 
And pleasure were thy trade. 
Thou, M'hile thy babes around thee 

cling, 
Shalt show us how divine a thing 
A woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not 

die, 
Nor leave thee when gray hairs are 

nigh, 
A melancholy slave; 
But an old age serene and bright, 
And lovely as a Lapland night, 
.Shall lead thee to thy grave. 



I'HE DAFFODILS. 

I WANDERED louely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and 

hills, 
Wlien all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
Tliey stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly 
dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but 

they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 
A poet could not but be gay, 
In such a jocund company : 
I gazed and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had 

brought. 

For oft when on my couch I lie. 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude. 
And then my heart with pleasure 

fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



672 



WORDSWORTH. 



TWILIGHT. 

IlAii,, Twilight, sovereign of one 

peaceful hour! 
Not dull art thou as undiscerning 

Night; 
But studious only to remove from 

sight 
Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient 

power! 
Thus did the waters gleam, the 

mountains lower 
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf- 
skin vest 
Here roving wild, he laid him down 

to rest 
On the bare rock, or through a leafy 

bower 
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By 

him was seen 
The selfsame vision which we now 

behold. 
At thy meek bidding, shadowy i^ow- 

er, brought forth ; 
These mighty barriers, and the gulf 

between ; 
The floods, — the stars; a spectacle 

as old 
As the beginning of the heavens and 

earth ! 



TO SLEEP. 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass 
by, 

One after one; the sound of rain, 

and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, Minds, 

and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, 

and pure sky; 
I've thought of all by turns; and still 

I lie 
Sleepless: and soon the small bird's 

melodies 
Must hear, first utter'd from my or- 
chard trees; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy 

cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights 

more, I lay, 
And could not Avin thee, Sleep! by 

any stealth: 



So do not let me wear to-night away : 

AVithout thee what is all the mor- 
ning's wealth? 

Come, blessed barrier betwixt day 
and day. 

Dear motlier of fresh thoughts and 
joyous health ! 



Lucr. 



She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove; 

A maid whom there were none to 
praise. 
And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half-hidden from the eye ! 

— Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could 
know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and oh! 

The difference to me! 



TO A DISTANT FIUFXD. 

Why art thovi silent ! Is thy love a 
plant 

Of such weak fibre that the treacher- 
ous air 

Of absence withers what was once so 
fair ? 

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to 
grant ? 

Yet have my thoughts for thee been 

vigilant. 
Bound to thy service with unceasing 

care — 
The mind's least generous wish a 

mendicant 
For nought but what thy happiness 

could spare. 

Speak! — though this soft warm 
heart, once free to hold 

A thousand tender pleasures, thine 
and mine. 

Be left more desolate, more dreary 
cold 



WORDSWORTH. 



673 



Than a forsaken bird's-nest fiU'd with 
snow 

'Mid its own bvish of leafless eglan- 
tine — 

Speak, that my torturing doubts their 
end may know ! 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the 

sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where 

cares aboimd ? 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart 

and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the de\v"y 

ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into 

at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, 

that music still ! 

To the last i^oint of vision, and be- 
yond. 

Mount, daring warbler ! — that love- 
prompted strain 

— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-fail- 
ing bond — 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the 
plain : 

Yet might' St thou seem, proud privi- 
lege! to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady 
wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine. 

Whence thou dost pour upon tlie 
world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more di- 
vine; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never 
roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven 
and Home! 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

A SIMPLE child 

That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in eveiy lijub, 
What should it know of death ? 



I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was tliick with many a curl 
That cluster'd round her head. 

She had a rustic, Avoodland air, 
And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
— Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? " 

'"How many? Seven in all," she 

said. 
And Avondering look'd at me. 

"And where are they? I prav you 

tell." 
She answer' d, " Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 

Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
My sister and my brother; 
And, in tlie cluu'chyai-d cottage, 1 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at (Jonway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be ?" 

Then did the little maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid. 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may 

be seen," 
The little maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my 

mother's door. 
And they are side by side. 

My stockings there I often knit. 
My kerchief there I hem; 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
I sit and sing to them, 




674 



WORDSWORTH. 



And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my Httle porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was little Jane; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain; 
And then she went away. 

So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And all the sunnner diy, 
Together round her grave we play'd, 
My brother Jolin and 1. 

And when the ground was white with 

snow. 
And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by her side. 

" How many are you then," said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 
The little maiden did reply, 
' ' O master ! we are seven ! 

"But they are dead; those two are 

dead ! 
Their spirits are in Heaven!" 
'Twas throwing words aw^ay: for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said," Nay, we are seven! " 



And steps of virgin liberty; 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A creatiu'e not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food, 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, l^lame, love, kisses, tears, and 
smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate 

will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and 

skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel Ught. 



SHE IFAS A I'HANTOM OF DE- 
LIGHT. 

She was a i:)hantom of delight 
AVhen tirst she gleamed upon my 

sight; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a mojnent's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful 

dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay, 



I saw her upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman too! 
Her household motions light 
free, 



and 



THY ART BE NATUIiE. 

A poet! — He hath put his heart to 

school. 
Nor dares to move unpropped upon 

the staff 
Which art hath lodged within his 

hand; must laugh 
By precept only, and shed tears by 

rule ! 
Thy art be nature; the live current 

quaff. 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant 

pool. 
In fear that else, wdien critics grave 

and cool 
Have killed him, scorn should write 

his epitaph. 
How does the meadow-flowei- its 

bloom unfold! 
Because the lovely little flower is 

free 
Down to its root, and in this free- 
dom bold ; 
And so the grandeur of the forest- 
tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal 

mould, 
But from its own divine yitality. 



SCOBN NOT THE SONNET. 

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you 

have frowned, 
Mindless of its just honors: with this 

key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the 

melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Pe- 
trarch's wound; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 

sound ; [grief ; 

Camoens soothed with it an exile's 
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante 

crowned 
His visionary brow; a glow-worm 

lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from 

fairy-land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, 

when a damp [hand 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his 
The thing became a trumpet, whence 

he blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too 

few! 



EVENING. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and 
free. 

The holy time is quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broad 
smi 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the 
sea. 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth witli liis eternal motion 
make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child! dear girl, that walkest 
with me here! 

If thou appearest untouched by sol- 
emn thought. 

Thy nature is not, therefore, less 
divine : 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all 
the year, 

And worshippest at the temple's in- 
ner shrine, 

God being Mith thee when we knew 
it not. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us ; late 

and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste 

our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a 

sordid boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the 

moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all 

hovu's 
And are up-gathered now like sleep- 
ing flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out 

of tune; 
It moves us not. Great God! I'd 

rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant 

lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me 

less forlorn 
Have sight of Proteus coming from 

the sea, [horn. 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 



WESTMINSTER BUIDGE. 

Earth has not anything to show 

more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could 

pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This city now doth like a garment 

wear [bare, 

The beauty of the morning; silent, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and 

temples lie 
Open luito the fields and to the sky, 
All bright and glittering in the 

smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor valley, rock, or 

hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so 

deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet 

will:' 
Dear God! the very houses seem 

asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying 

still! 



676 



WOTTON. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice: 

cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering voice '? 

While I am lying on the grass, 
Thy loud note smites my ear! 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near! 

1 hear thee babbling to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers; 
And unto me thou bringest a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the 



spring 



Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery. 



The same whom in my school-boy 

days 
I listened to; that cry 
Which made me look a thousand 

ways 
In bush and tree and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Thi'ough woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen ! 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place; 
That is fit home for thee ! 



Sir Henry Wotton. 



A HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are. 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth 

raise 
Or vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by 

praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 



Who hath his life from rumors freed, 

Whose conscience is his strong re- 
treat : 

Whose state can neither flatterers 
feed. 

Nor ruin make accusers great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend : 

— This man is freed from servile 

bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 



WYATT— YOUNG. 



677 



Sir Thomas Wyatt. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE ONE HE 
WOULn LOIE. 

A FACE that should content me 

wondrous well, 
Should not be fair, but lovely to 

behold ; 
With gladsome cheer, all grief for to 

expel ; 
With sober looks so would I that 

it should 
Speak without words, such words as 

none can tell; 
The tress also should be of crisped 

gold. 
With wit, and these, might chance I 

might be tied. 
And knit again the knot that should 

not slide. 



A LOVEIVS PRAYER. 

Disdain me not without desert, 
Nor leave me not so suddenly; 

Since well ye wot that in my heart 
I mean ye not but honestly. 

Refuse me not without cause why, 
Xor think me not to he unjust; 

Since that l)y lot of fantasy. 
This careful knot needs knit 
must. 



Mistrust me not, though some there be 
That fain would spot my steadfast- 
ness. 

Believe them not, since that ye see 
The proof is not as they express. 

Forsake me not, till I deserve ; 

Nor hate me not, till I offend, 
Destroy me not, till that I swerve; 

But since ye know what I intend. 

Disdain me not, that am your own ; 

Eef use me not that am so true ; 
Mistrust me not, till all be known ; 

Forsake me not now for no new. 



PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 

Venomous thorns that are so sharp 

and keen 
Bear flowers we see, full fresh and 

fair of hue : 
Poison is also put in medicine. 

And unto man his health doth oft 

renew. 
The fire that all. things eke consu- 

meth clean. 
May hurt and heal: then if that 

this be true, 
I trust some time my harm may be 

my health. 
Since every woe is joined with some 

wealth. 



Edward Young. 



[From Night Thoughts.'] 



PROCRASTINATION. AND FORGET- 
FULNESS OF DEATH. 

All promise is poor dilatory man. 
And that through every stage: Avhen 

young, indeed. 
In full content we sometimes nobly 

rest. 



Unanxious for ourselves; and only 
wish. 

As duteous sons, our fathers were 
more wise. 

At thirty man suspects himself a 
fool; 

Knows it at forty, and i-eforms liis 
plan ; 

At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 

Pushes his prudent purpose to re- 
solve ; 



078 



YOUNG. 



In all the magnanimity of tliought 
liesolves, and re-resolves; then dies 

the same. 
And why ? Because he thinks him- 
self immortal. 
All men think all men mortal, but 

themselves ; 
Themselves, when some alarming 

shock of fate 
Strikes through their wounded hearts 

the sudden dread : 
But their hearts wounded, like the 

wounded air, 
Soon close ; where passed the shaft, 

no trace is found. 
As from the wing no scar the sky 

retains; 
The parted wave no furrow from the 

keel; 
So dies in human hearts the thought 

of death. 



[From Xhjht Thour/kts.] 
>'IGHT II. 

TIME, ITS USE AND MISUSE. 

Time, in advance, behind him hides 

his wings. 
And seems to creep, decrepit with 

his age : 
Behold him, when past by; what 

then is seen. 
But his broad pinions swifter than 

the winds ? 

We waste, not use, our time: we 

breathe, not live. 
Time wasted is existence, used is 

life : 

We push time from us, and we wish 

him back; 
Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of 

life; 
Life we think long, and short; death 

seek, antl sliun ; 
Body and soul, like peevish man and 

wife. 
United jar, and yet are loth to part. 
Oh, the dark days of vanity! while 

here. 
How tasteless! and how terrible, 

when gone ! 



Gone? they ne'er go; when past, 
they iiaunt us still : 

The spirit walks of every day de- 
ceased ; 

And smiles an angel, or a fury 
frowns. 

Nor death, nor life, delight us. If 
time past. 

And time possessed, both pain us, 
what can please ? 

That which the Deity to please or- 
dained. 

Time used. The man who conse- 
crates his hours 

By vigorous effort, and an honest 
aim, 

At once he draws the sting of life 
and death : 

He walks with nature ; and her paths 
are iieace. 



[From Night Thoiifjhts.] 

NIGHT II. 

JOr TO BE SHAH EI). 

Nature, in zeal for human amity, 
Denies, or damps, an undivided joy. 
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; 
•Joy flies monopolists : it calls for two; 
Kich fruit! Heaven-planted! never 

plucked by one. 
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to 

give 
To social man true relish of himself. 
Full on oiuselves, descending in a 

line, 
Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in 

delight : 
Delight intense is taken by rebound ; 
Keverberated pleasures fire the breast. 



[From Xujht TItouyhts.] 

NIGHT II. 

CONSCIENCE. 

O TREACHEROUS conscience! while 
she seems to sleep 

On rose and myrtle, lulled with sy- 
ren song; 

While she seems nodding o'er her 
charge, to drop 

On headlong appetite the slackened 
rein. 



YOUNG. 



679 



And give us vqy to license, unrecalled, 

Unmarked; see, from behind lier 
secret stand, 

The sly informer minutes every fault, 

And her dread diary with horror fills. 

Not the gross act alone employs her 
pen: 

She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, 

A watchful foe! the formidable spy, 

Listening, o'erhears the whispers of 
our camp ; 

Our dawning purposes of heart ex- 
plores, 

And steals our embryos of iniquity. 

As all-rapacious usurers conceal 

Their doomsday-book from all-con- 
suming heirs; 

Thus, with indulgence most severe, 
she treats 

Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 

Unnoted, notes each moment misap- 
l^lied ; 

In leaves more durable than leaves 
of brass. 

Writes our whole history. 



[From Night Thoughts.] 

NIGHT II. 

EFFECT OF CO XT ACT WITH THE 
WORLD. 

YiRxrE, for ever frail, as fair, below. 

Her tender nature suffers in the 
crowd, 

Nor touches on the world, without a 
stain : 

The world's infectious; few bring 
back at eve. 

Immaculate, the manners of the 
morn. 

Something we thought, is blotted; 
we resolved. 

Is shaken; we renounced, returns 
again. 

Each salutation may slide in a sin 

Unthought before, or fix a former 
flaw. 

Nor is it strange: light, motion, con- 
course, noise. 

All, scatter us abroad. Thought, out- 
ward-bound. 

Neglectful of her home affairs, flies 
off 



In fume and dissipation, quits her 

charge, 
And leaves the breast unguarded to 

the foe. 

Present example gets within our 

guard. 
And acts with double force, by few 

repelled. 
Ambition tires ambition; love of gain 
Strikes, like a pestilence, from breast 

to breast: 
Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapors 

breathe ; 
And inhumanity is caught from man, 
From smiling man. A slight, a sin- 
gle glance. 
And shot at random, often has 

brought home 
A sudden fever to the throbbing 

heart, 
Of envy, rancor, or impure desire. 
We see, we hear, Avith peril; safety 

dwells 
Remote from multitude; the world's 

a school 
Of wrong, and what proficients 

swarm around 
AVe must, or imitate, or disapprove ; 
Must list as their accomplices, or 

foes. 



{From Night Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT II. 

THE CROWNING DISAPPOINT- 
MENT. 

So prone our hearts to whisper what 

we wish, 
'Tis later with the wise than he's 

aware. 

And all mankind mistake their time 

of day; 
Even age itself. Fresh hopes are 

hourly sown 
In furrowed brows. To gentle life's 

descent 
We shut our eyes, and think it is a 

plain. 
We take fair days in winter, for the 

spring; 



G80 



YOUNG. 



And turn oiu' blessings into bane. 
Since oft 

Man must compute tliat age he can- 
not feel, 

He scarce believes he's older for his 
jears. [store 

Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in 

One disappointment sure, to crown 
tlie rest; 

The disappointment of a promised 
hour. 



[From Night Thouqhts.] 

NIGHT 11. 
INSUFFICIENCY OF THE WORLD. 

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our 
past hours; 

And ask them, what report they bore 
to heaven ; 

And how they might have borne 
more welcome news. 

Their answers form M'hat men expe- 
rience call ; 

If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, 
worst foe. 

Oh, reconcile them! Kind experi- 
ence cries, 

"There's nothing here, but what as 
nothing weighs : 

The more our joy, the more we know 
it vain ; 

And by success are tutored to de- 
spair." 

Nor is it only thus, but must be so. 

Who knows not this, though gray, is 
still a child ; 

Loose then from earth the grasp of 
fond desire. 

Weigh anchor, and some happier 
clime explore. 



[From Ntfiht Tliourihts.'] 

XICIIT II. 

EFFORT, THE (i.iUGE OF GREAT- 
NESS. 

No blank, no trifle, nature made, or 

meant. 
Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be 

thine : 



This cancels thy complaint at once; 

this leaves 
In act no trifle, and no blank in 

time. 
This greatens, tills, immortalizes, all ; 
This, the blest art of turning all to 

gold ; 
This, the good heart's prerogative, 

to raise 
A royal tribute from the poorest 

hours : 
Immense revenue! every moment 

pays. 
If nothing more than purpose in thy 

power ; 
Thy purpose firm is equal to the 

deed : 
Who does the best his circumstance 

allows. 
Does well, acts nobly; angels could 

no more. 
Our outward act, indeed, admits re- 
straint; 
'Tis not in things o'er thought to 

domineer. 
Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts 

are heard in Heaven. 



[From Night Thoui/hts.] 

NIGHT 11. 

THE END OF THE VIRTUOUS. 

The chamber where the good man 

meets his fate. 
Is privileged beyond the common 

walk 
Of virtuous life, quite in the vei'ge 

of heaven. 

A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
Here, tired dissimulation drops her 

mask ; 
Through life's grimace, that mistress 

of the scene ! 
Here, real and apparent are the same. 
You see the man; you see his hold 

on heaven. 

Whatever farce the boastful hero 

plays. 
Virtue alone has majesty in death; 
And greater still, the more the tyrant 

frowns. 



YOUNG. 



681 



\_From Night Thoughts.] 

NIGHT III. 

THE OTHER LIFE THE EXD OF 
THIS. 

'• He sins against this life wlio sliglits 

the next." 
Wliat is tliis life ? How few their 

favor! te know ! 
Fond in the dark, and hlind in our 

embrace, 
By passionately loving life we make 
Loved life unlovely; hugging her to 

death. 
We give to time eternity's regard; 
And, dreaming, take our passage for 

our port. 
Life has no value as an end, but 

means ; 
An end, deplorable ! a means, divine ! 
AVIien 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse 

than nought; 
A nest of pains ; when held as noth- 
ing, much: 
Like some fair humorists, life is 

most enjoyed 
When courted least; most worth, 

when disesteemed : 
Then "tis the seat of comfort, rich 

in peace; 
In prospect, richer far; important! 

awful ! 
Xot to be mentioned, but with shouts 

of praise; 
Not to be thought on, but with tides 

of .ioy; 
The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! 



[From Night Thoughts.] 

NIGHT III. 
THE GLORY OF DEATH. 

Death but entombs the body; life 
the soul. 

Death has no dread, but what frail 

life imparts; 
Xor life true joy, but what kind 

death improves. 

Death, that absolves my birth; a 

curse without it I 
Eich death, that realizes all my cares, 



Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a 
chimera! [joy-" 

Death, of all i>ain the period, not of 

Joy's source, and subject, still sub- 
sist unhurt, 

One, in my soul: and one, in her 
great Sire. 

Death is the crown of life; 
Were death denied, poor man would 

live in vaiii ; 
Were death denied, to live would not 

be life ; 
Were death denied, even fools Avould 

wish to die. 
Death wounds to cure: Ave fall; we 

rise ; we reign ; 
Spring from our fetters, fasten in the 

skies; [sight: 

Where blooming Eden withers inour 
Death gives us more than was in 

Eden lost. 
This king of terrors is the prince of 

peace. 
When shall I die to vanity, pain, 

death ? 
When shall I die ? When shall I live 

for ever '? 



IFrom Xight Thoughts.] 

NIGHT III. 

CRUELTY. 

Man is to man the sorest, surest ill, 

A previous blast foretells the rising 
storm ; 

O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere 
they fall; 

Volcanoes belloAV ere they disem- 
bogue ; 

Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws 
devour; 

And smoke betrays the wide-consum- 
ing fire : 

Ruin from man is most concealed 
when near, [blow. 

And sends the dreadful tidings in the 

Is this the flight of fancy ? Would 
it were! 

Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, 
but himself, 

That hideous sight, a naked human 
heart. 



YOUNG. 



[From Night Thoughts.] 

NIGHT JV. 

FALSE TEIilWRS IN VIEW OF 
DEATH. 

Why start at death ! Where is he ? 
Death arrived, 

Is past; not come, or gone, he's 
never here. 

Ere hope, sensation fails; blaclc- 
boding man 

Eeceives, not suffers, death's tremen- 
dous blow. 

The knell, the shroud, the mattock, 
and the grave; 

The deep, damp vault, the darkness, 
and the worm ; [eve, 

These are the bugbears of a winter's 

The terrors of the living, not the 
de'ad. 

Imagination's fool and error's wretch, 

Man makes a death, which nature 
never made: 

Then on the point of his own fancy 
falls; 

And feels a thousantl deaths, in fear- 
ing one. 



[From Night Thoughts.'] 
NIGHT V. 

DIFFERENT SOURCES OF FUNE- 
RAL TEARS. 

OuK funeral tears from different 

causes rise. 
As if from cisterns in the soul. 
Of various kinds they flow. From 

tender hearts 
By soft contagion called, some burst 

at once. 
And stream obsequious to the lead- 
ing eye. 
Some ask more time, by curious art 

distilled. 
Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to 

melt. 
Struck by the magic of the public eye. 
Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out 

amain. 
Some weep to share the fame of the 

deceased. 
So high in merit, and to them so 

dear: 



They dwell on praises, which they 

think they share; 
And thus, without a blush, commend 

themselves. 
Some mourn, in proof that some- 
thing they could love: 
They weep not to relieve their grief, 

but show. 
Some weep in perfect justice to the 

dead. 
As conscious all their love is in arrear. 
Some mischievously weep, not unap- 
prised. 
Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest 

of an eye. 
With what address the soft Ephesians 

draw 
Their sable network o'er entangled 

hearts ! 
As seen through crystal, how their 

roses glow. 
While liquid pearl runs trickling 

down their cheek ! 
()f hers not j)rouder Egypt's wanton 

queen, 
Carousing gems, herself dissolved in 

love. 
Some weep at death, abstracted from 

the dead. 
And celebrate, like Charles, their 

own decease. 
By kind construction some are 

deemed to weep 
Because a decent veil conceals their 

joy. 

Some weep in earnest, and yet weep 

in vain. 
As deep in indiscretion as in woe. 
Passion, blind passion! impotently 

pours 
Tears, that deserve more tears ; while 

Reason sleeps. 
Or gazes like an idiot, unconcerned; 
Nor comprehends the meaning of the 

storm ; 
Knows not it speaks to her, and her 

alone. 

Half-round the globe, the tears 

pumped up by death 
Are spent in watering vanities of life; 
In making folly tiomish still more 

fair. 



YOUNG. 



683 



[From Night Though fs.] 

XIGHT V. 

VIRTUE, THE MEASURE OF 
YEARS. 

What though short thy date! 

Virtue, not rolHng suns, the mind 
matures. 

That life is long, which answers life's 
great end. 

The time that bears no fruit, de- 
serves no name: 

The man of wisdom is the man of 
years. 

In hoaiy youth Methusalems may die ; 

Oh, how misdated on their flattering 
tombs ! 



[From Xii/ht Tlioiights.] 

XIGHT V. 

POWER OF THE WORLD. 

Nor reason, nor affection, no, nor 

both 
Combined, can break the witchcrafts 

of the world. 
Behold, the inexorable hour at hand ! 
Behold, the inexorable hour forgot! 
And to forget it the chief aim of 

life; 
Though well to ponder it, is life's 
"chief end. 



[From Xajht Thoiir/lits.] 

XIGIIT VI. 

ALL CHANGE; NO DEATH. 

All change ; no death. Day follows 
nigiit; and night 

The dying day ; stars rise and set and 
rise; 

Earth takes the example. See, the 
summer gay. 

With her green chaplet and ambro- 
sial flowers, 

Droops into pallid autumn: winter 

gt'ayi 
Horrid with frost and turbulent with 

storm, 
Blows autumn, and his golden fruits 

away : 



Then melts into the spring: soft 

spring, with breath 
Favonian, from warm chambers of 

the south, [fades, 

Recalls the first. All, to reflourish. 
As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend. 
Emblems of man, who passes, not 

exi>ires. 
With this minute distinction, em- 
blems just. 
Nature revolves, but man advances; 

both 
Eternal ; that a circle, this a line. 
That gravitates, this soars. The as- 

l^iring soul. 
Ardent and tremulous, like flame, 

ascends ; 
Zeal and hiunility, her wings to 

heaven. 
The world of matter, with its various 

forms, 
All dies into new life. Life born 

from death 
Rolls the vast mass, and shall for 

ever roll. 
No single atom, once in being, lost. 



[From Night Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT VII. 

AMBITION. 

Man must soar: 
An obstinate activity within, 
An insuppressive spring will toss 

him up 
In spite of fortune's load. Not kings 

alone, 
Each villager has his ambition too; 
No sultan prouder than his fettered 

slave: [straw. 

Slaves build their little Babylons of 
Echo the proud Assyrian, in their 

hearts. 
And cry — " Behold the wonders of 

my might ! ' ' 
And why '? Because immortal as 

their lord. 
And souls immortal must for ever 

heave 
At something great; the glitter, or 

the gold ; 
The praise of mortals, or the praise 

of Heaven. 



684 



YOUNG. 



Nor absolutely vain is human 

praise. 
When human is supported by divine. 

As love of pleasure is ordained to 

guard 
And feed our bodies, and extend our 

race; [tect, 

The love of praise is planted to pro- 
And propagate the glories of the 

mind. 



[From JVif/ht Thoughts.] 

XIGHT VIII. 

WISDOM. 

No man e'er found a happy life by 

chance ; 
Or yawned it into being with a wish; 
Or, with the snout of grovelling ap- 
petite. 
E'er smelt it out, and grubbed it 

from the dirt. 
An art it is, and must be learned; 

and learned 
With unremitting effort, or be lost; 
And leave us perfect blockheads, in 

our bliss. 
The clouds may drop down titles and 

estates; 
Wealth may seek us; but wisdom 

must be sought ; 
Sought before all; but (how unlike 

all else 
We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought 

in vain. 



{From Klght Thoughts.] 

NIGHT IX. 
CHEERFULNESS IX MISFORTUNE. 
None ai-e imhappy: all have cause to 

smile. 
But such as to themselves that cause 

deny. [pains ; 

Our faults are at the bottom of our 
Error, in act, or judgment, is the 

source 
Of endless sighs. We sin, or we 

mistake; 
And nature tax, when false oiiinicn 

stings. 
Let impious grief be banished, joy 

indulged ; 



But chiefly then, when grief puts in 
her claim. 

Joy from the joyous, frequently be- 
trays ; 

Oft lives in vanity, and dies in woe. 

Joy amidst ills, corroborates, exalts; 

'Tis joy and conquest; joy and virtue 
too. 

A noble fortitude in ills, delights 

Heaven, earth, ourselves; 'tis duty, 
glory, peace. 

Affliction is the good man's shining 
scene: 

Prosperity conceals his brightest ray : 

As night to stars, woe lustre gives to 
man. 

Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 

And virtue in calamities, admire. 

The crown of manhood is a winter 
joy; 

An evergreen that stands the north- 
ern blast. 

And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 



[From Night Thoughts.] 
NIGIIT IX. 

THE WORLD A GRAVE. 

Where is the dust that has not 

been alive ? 
The spade, the plough, disturb our 

ancestors ; 
From human mould we reap our 

daily bread. 
Tlie globe around earth's hollow sur- 
face shakes. 
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
While buried towns support the 

dancer's heel. 
The moist of human frame the sun 

exhales; 
Winds scatter, through the mighty 

void, the dry; 
Earth repossesses part of what she 

gave. 
And the freed spirit mounts on 

wings of fire; 
Each element partakes our scattered 

spoils; 
As nature, wide, our ruins spread: 

man's death 
Inhabits all things, but the thought 

of man. 



SPORTIVE, SATIRICAL, HUMOROUS, 



DIALECT POEMS. 



Charles Follen Adams. 



YAWCOD STRAUSS. 

I HAF von funny leedle poy 

Vot gomes scliust to mine knee ; 
Der queerest schap, der Greatest 
rogue, 

As efer you dit see. 
He runs.und schumps,und schmashes 
dings 

In all barts off der house ; 
But vot off dot ? he vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He get der measles and der niumbs, 

Und eferyding dot's oudt; 
He sbills mine glass off lager bier. 

Foots schnnff indo mine kraut. 
He fills mine pijie mit Limburj 
clieese, — 

Dot vas der roughest chouse: 
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 

But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 
To make der scliticks to beat it mit,— 

Mine cracious, dot vas drue! 
I dinks mine bed vas schplit abart. 

He kicks onp sooch a touse: 
But nefer mind; der poys vas few 

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions such as dese: 
Who baints mine nose so red ? 

Who was it cuts dot schmoodtli blacc 
oudt 
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 



Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der 
lamp 

Vene'er der glim I douse, 
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 

I somedimes dink I schall go wild 

Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
Und wish vonce more I gould haf 
rest, 

Und beaceful dimes enshoy; 
^ut ven he vas ashleep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 
I prays der Lord, "Hake anyding, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 



PAT'S Cn/TfCISJf. 

There's a story that's old. 
But good if twice told. 

Of a doctor of limited skill, 
Who cured beast and man 
On the " cold-water plan," 

Without the small help of a pill. 

On his portal of pine 
Hung an elegant sign. 

Depicting a beautiful rill, 

And a lake where a sprite, 
With apparent delight. 

Was sporting a sweet dishabille. 

Pat McCarty one day, 
As he sauntered that wav. 
Stood and gazed at that portal 
pine; 



of 



Note. — Thackeray's liouiUahaisse and Trowbridge's Vaqahonds, being really- 
pathetic poems, are placed here lor convenience rather than fitness, their colloquial 
style adapting them to this rather than the other department. 



686 



ALLINOIIAM. 



When thfi doctor with pride 
Stepped up to his side, 
Saying, "Pat, how is that for a 
sign ? " 

" There's wan thing," says Pat, 

" Y've hft out o' that, 
"Which, be jabers! is quite a mistake: 

It's trim, and it's nate: . 

But, to make it complate, 
Ye should have a foin burd on the 
lake." 

"Ah! indeed! pray, then tell, 

* To make it look well. 

What bird do you think it may lack? ' " 
Says Pat, " Of the same, 
I've forgotten the name. 

But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! ' 
quack!' " 



FRITZ AND I. 

Mynheer, blease helb a boor oldt 
man 

Vot gomes vrom Sharmany, 
Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only f reunds 

To geep me company. 

I haf no geld to puy mine pread, 
No blace to lay me down ; 

For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I, 
Und sdrangers in der town. 



Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, 
Und some dey kicks us oudt, 

Und say, " You don'd got peesnis 
here 
To sdroU der schtreets aboudt ! ' ' 

Vot's dot you say ? — you puy mine 
tog 

To gife me pread to eadt! 
I vas so boor as nefer vas, 

But I vas no " tead peat." 

Vot, sell mine tog, mine leedle tog. 

Dot vollows me aboudt, 
Und vags his dail like anydings 

Vene'er I dakes him oudt ? 

Schust look at him, und see him 
schump ! 
He likes me pooty veil; 
Und dere vas somedings 'bout dot 
tog. 
Mynheer, I wouldn't sell. 

"Der collar?" Nein: 'tvas some- 
ding else 

Vrom vich I gould not hart ; 
Und. if dot ding was dook avay 

I dink it prakes mine heart. 

" Vot was it, den, aboudt dot tog," 
You ashk, " dot's not vor sale ?" 

1 dells you what it isli, mine freund : 
'Tish der vag off dot tog's dail! 



William Allingham. 

LOVELY MARY DOXNELLY. 

O T.OVEEV Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! 
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will. 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock. 

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock; 

Bed rowans warm in sunshine, and wotted with a shower. 

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine — 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. 



BATES. 



687 



The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before — 
No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O! but she was gay; 
yiie danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, 
The music nearly killed itself, "to listen to her feet; 
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised; 
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. 

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; 
Youi- smile is always in mylieart, your name beside my tongue. 
But you"ve as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, 
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. 

O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town; 

The higher I exalt you the lower I'm cast down. 

If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, 

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 

O, might we live together in lofty palace hall 
Where joyful music rises, and Avhere scarlet curtains fall I 
O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small, 
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! 

O, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress — 
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less; 
The proudest place would fit yoiu- face, and I am poor and low. 
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! 



Fletcher Bates. 



THE CLEnGYMAiY AND THE 
PEDDLER. 

A CLEUGYiMAN who louged to trace 
Amid his flock a work of grace, 
And mourned because he knew not 

why, 
Yon fleece kept wet and his kept 

dry, 
AVhile thinking what he could do 

more 
Heard some one rapping at the door. 
And opening it, there met his view 
A dear old brother whom he knew, 
Who had got down by worldly blows, 
From wealth to peddling cast-off 

clothes. 
" Come in, my brother," said the 

pastor, 
*' Perhaps my trouble you can mas- 
ter, 



For since the summer you withdrew, 
My converts have been very few." 
" I can," the peddler said, " unroll 
Something, perchance, to ease your 

soul. 
And to cut short all fulsome speeches. 
Bring me a pair of your old breeches." 
The clothes were brought, the ped- 
dler gazed. 
And said. " Xo longer be amazed, 
The gloss upon this cloth is such, 
I think, perhaps, you sit too much 
Building air castles, bright and gay. 
\Vhich Satan loves to IjIow away. 
And here behold, as I am born. 
The nap from neither kxrr is worn; 
He who would great revivals see, 
Must wear his pants out on the knee; 
For such the lever prayer supplies. 
When pastors kneel, their churches 
rise." 



688 



BA YL Y— BROWNING. 



Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



WHY DOXT THE MEX PROPOSE? 

\ViiY don't the men ijropose, maiu- 
mu ? 

Why dotit the men propose ? 
Each seems just coining to the point, 

And tlien away lie goes ! 
It is no fault of yours, mamma, 

That everybody knows; 
Youfete the finest men in town. 

Yet, oh ! they won' t propose ! 

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, 

To make a proper match ; 
For coronets and eklest sons 

I'm ever on the watch; 
I've hopes when some distingue 
beau 

A glance upon me throws ; 
But though he'll dance, aud smile, 
and flirt, 

.Vlas ! he won't propose ! 

I've tried to win by languishing 

And dressing like a blue ; 
I've bought big books, and talk'd of 
them 
As if I'd read them through! 
With hair cropped like a man, I've 
felt 
The heads of all the beaux ; 



But Spurzheim could not touch their 
liearts. 
And, oil! they won't propose! 

I threw aside the books, and thought 

That ignorance was bliss; 
I felt convinced that men preferr'd 

A simple sort of Miss ; 
And so I lisped out naught beyond 

Plain '' Yeses " or plain " noes," 
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; 

Yet, oh ! they won' t propose ! 

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, 

I heard Sir Harry Gale 
Exclaim, " Now I projjo.se again!" 

I started, turning pale; 
I really thought my time was come, 

I blushetl like any rose ; 
But, oh! I found 'twas only at 

Ecarte he'd projwse ! 

And what is to be done, mamma ? 

Oh ! wliat is to be done ? 
I really have no time to lose. 

For I am thirty-one: 
At balls I am too often left 

AVhere spinsters sit in rows ; 
Why won't the men propose, mam- 
ma ? 

Why won''t the men propose ? 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



[From Aurora LeigJi.] 
GOODiVESS. 

Distrust that word. 

"There is none good save God," said 
Jesus Christ. 

If He once, in the first creation-week. 

Called creatures good, — for ever af- 
terward. 

The Devil has only done it, and his 
heirs, [who lose; 

The knaves who win so, and the fools 



The world's grown dangerous. In 
the middle age, 

I think they called malignant fays 
and imps 

Good peoiile. A good neighbor, even 
in this. 

Is fatal sometimes, — cuts your morn- 
ing up 

To mince-meat of the very smallest 
talk. 

Then helps to sugar her boliea at 
night 



BROWNING. 



689 



With yoiir reputation. I have known 

good wives, 
As cliaste, or nea:rly so, as Potipliar's; 
And good, good mothers, who would 

use a cliild 
To better an intrigue; good friends, 

beside, 
(Very good) wlio lumg succinctly 

round your neck 
And sucked your breath, as cats are 

fableil to do 
By sleeping infants. And we all have 

known 
Good critics, who have stamped out 

poets' hopes; 
Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on 

the state; 
Good patriots, who, for a theory, 

risked a cause; 
Good kings, who disembowelled for 

a tax; 
Good popes, who brought all good to 

jeopardy ; 
Good Christians, who sate still in 

easy chairs, 
And damned the general world for 

standing up. — 
Now, may the good God pardon all 

good men! 



[From Aurora Leif/h.] 
ClilTICS. 

My critic Hammond flatters prettily. 
And wants another volume like tlie 

last. 
My critic Belfair wants another book. 
Entirely different, which will sell, 

(and live ?) 
A striking book, yet not a startling 

book. 
The public blames originalities, 
(You must not pump spring water 

imawares 
Upon a gracious public, full of 

nerves — ) 
Good things, not subtle, new, yet 

orthodox. 
As easy reading as the dog-eared page 
That's fingered by said public, fifty 

years, 
Since first taught spelling by its 

grandmother, 



And yet a revelation in some sort : 

That's hard, my critic Belfair! So 
— what next ? 

My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
thoughts ; 

" Call a man, John, a woman, Joan," 
says he, 

" And do not prate so of humani- 
ties:" 

Whereat I call my critic simply 
Stokes. 

My critic Johnson recommends more 
mirth 

Because a cheerful genius suits the 
times. 

And all true poets laugh unquencha- 
bly 

Like Shakespeare and the gods. 
That's very hard. 

The gods may laugh, and Shake- 
speare ; Dante smiled 

With such a needy heart on two pale 
lips. 

We cry, " Weep rather, Dante." Po- 
ems are 

Men, if true poems: and who dares 
exclaim 

At any man's door, " Here, 'tis un- 
derstood 

The thunder fell last week and killed 
a wife, 

And scared a sickly husband — what 
of that ? 

Get up, be merry, shout and clap 
your hands, 

Because a cheerful genius suits the 
times — ? " 

None says so to the man, — and why 
indeed 

Should any to the poem ? 



[From Aurnra Leir/h.] 
HUMANITY. 

Humanity is great; 
And, if I would not rather pore upon 
An ounce of common, ugly, human 

dust. 
An artisan's palm or a peasant's 

brow, 
Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and 

God, 




BROWNING. 



Than track old Nilus to his silver 

roots. 
And wait on all the changes of the 

moon 
Among the mountain-peaks of Thes- 

saly, 
(Until her magic crystal round itself 
For many a witch to see in) set it down 
As weakness — strength by no means. 

How is this 
That men of science, osteologists 
And surgeons, beat some poets in 

respect 
For nature, — count nought common 

or unclean, [mens 

Spend raptures upon perfect speci- 
Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 
Or beautiful new cases of curved 

spine; 
While we, we are shocked at nature's 

falling off. 
We dare to shrink back from her 

warts and blains. 
We will not, when she sneezes, look 

at her. 
Not even to say, " God bless her," 

That's our wrong. 



For that, she will not trust us often 
with 

Her larger sense of beauty and de- 
sire, 

But tethers us to a lily or a rose 

And bids us diet on the dew inside. 

Left ignorant that the hungry beg- 
gar-boy 

(Who stares unseen against our ab- 
sent eyes. 

And wonders at the gods that we 
must be. 

To pass so carelessly for the oranges I) 

Bears yet a breastful of a fellow- 
world 

To this world, undisparaged, unde- 
spoiled. 

And (while we scorn him for a flower 
or two. 

As being. Heaven help us, less poet- 
ical) 

Contains himself both flowers and 
firmaments 

And surging seas and aspectable stars 

And all that we would push him out 
of sight 

In order to see nearer. 



Robert Browning. 



THE PIED PIPER OF IIAMELIN. 

Hamei.ix Town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its M'all on the southern 

side; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But Avhen begins my ditty, 
Almost five hundred years ago. 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin, was a pity. 

Rats! 
They fought the dogs, and killed the 
cats, 
And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 
And licked the soup from the cook's 
own ladles. 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 



And even spoiled the women's chats, 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 

In fifty different sharps and flats. 

At last the people in a body 
To the Town Hall came flocking: 

"'Tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's 
a noddy ; 
And as for our corporation— shock- 
ing 

To think Ave buy gowns lined with 
ermine 

For dolts that can't or Avon't deter- 
mine 

What's best to rid us of oiu- vermin! 

You hope, because you're old and 
obese, 

To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 

Iiouse up, sirs! Give your brains a 
racking. 



BROWNING. 



691 



To find the remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you pack- 
ing!" 
At this, the mayor and corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sate in counsel — 

At length the mayor broke silence: 
" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown 
sell: 
1 wish 1 were a mile hence! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap! " 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle 

tap ? 
" Bless us," cri,ed the mayor, " what's 

that?" 
(^Vith the corporation as he sat, 
Looking little, though wondrous fat; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister. 
Than a too-long-opened oyster. 
Save when at noon liis paunch grew 

mutinous 
For a plate of turtle, green and glu- 
tinous) 
*' Only a scraping of shoes on the 

. ■ mat ? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
jMakes my heart go pit-a-pat! " 

"Come in!" the mayor cried, look- 
ing bigger: 
And in did come the strangest figure ! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red: 
And he himself was tall and thin; 
^Vith sharp blue eyes, each like a pin : 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy 

skin; 
No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin. 
But li])s where smiles went out and 

in — 
There was no guessing his kith and 

kin! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one: "It's as my great-grand- 
sire, [tone. 
Starting up at the trump of doom's 
Had walked this way from his painted 
tombstone! " 



He advanced to the comicil-table : ^ 
And, '• Please your honors,'" said he, 

"I'm able. 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun. 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm — 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and 

viper — 
And people call me the Pied Piper." 
(And here they noticed round his 

neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the self- 
same check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were 

ever straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled. ) 
" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I 

am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
Last June, from his huge swarm of 

gnats; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampire- 
bats; 
And, as for what your brain bewil- 
ders — 
If I can rid your town of rats, 
AVill you give me a thousand guil- 
ders?" 
"One? fifty thousand!" — was the 

exclamation 
Of the astonished mayor and corpo- 
ration. 

Into the street the piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile. 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while; 
Then, like a musical adept. 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. 
And green and blue his sharp eyes 

twinkled. 
Like a caudle flame where salt is 

sprinkled; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe 

uttered. 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 



692 



BROWNING. 



And the muttering grew to a gi-uin- 
bling: 

And the grumbhng grew to a mighty 
rumbling; 

And out of the liouses the rats came 
tumbling. 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, 
brawny rats, 

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, 
tawny rats. 

Grave old plodders, gay young frisk- 
ers. 
Fathers, mothers, imcles, cousins. 

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; 
Families by tens and dozens, , 

Brothers, sisters, husbands, Avives — 

Followed the piper for their lives. 

From street to street he piped advan- 
cing. 

And step by step they followed dan- 
cing, 

Until they came to the river Weser 

Wherein all plunged and perished 

— Save one who, stout as Julius 
Caesar, 

Swam across and lived to carry 

(As he the manuscript he cherished) 

To rat-land home his commentary, 

Which was : "At the first shrill notes 
of the pipe, 

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 

And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 

Into a cider-press's gripe — 

And a moving away of pickle-tub- 
boards. 

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup- 
boards. 

And a drawing the corks of train-oil- 
flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops of butter- 
casks. 

And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by 
psaltery 

Is breathed) called out, O rats, re- 
joice ! 

The world is grown to one vast dry- 
saltery I 

So munch on, crunch on, take your 
nuncheon. 

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 

All ready staved, like a great sun 
shone 



Glorious, scarce an inch before me, 
Just as methought it said. Come, 

Ijore me, 
— I fomid the Weser rolling o'er 

me." 

You should have heard the Hamelin 

people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the 

steeple ; 
" Go," cried the mayor, " and get 

long poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the 

holes ! 
Consult with carpenters and builders. 
And leave in our town not even a 

trace 
Of the rats!" — when suddenly, up 

the face 
Of the piper perked in the market- 
place, 
With a, "First, if you please, my 

thousand guilders!" 

A thousand giiilders! The mayor 

looked blue; 
So did the corporation too. 
For the council dinners made rare 

havoc 
With claret. Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, 

Hock; 
And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar's biggest butt with Ilhen- 

ish. 
To pay this sum to a wandering fel- 
low 
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 
"Beside," quoth the mayor, with a 

knowing wink, 
" Om- business was done at the river's 

brink; [sink. 

We saw witli our eyes the vermin 
And whafs dead can't come to life, 

I think. 
So, friend,- we're not the folks to 

shrink 
From the duty of giving you some- 
thing for drink. 
And a matter of money to put in 

your poke ; 
But, as for the guilders, what we 

spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was 

in joke, 



BROWNING. 



693 



Besides, our losses have made us 

thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders! Come, take 

fifty!" 
The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
'• No trilling! I can't wait! heside, 
I've promised to visit by dinner 

time 
Bagdat, and accept the prime 
Of the head cook's pottage, all he's 

rich in. 
For having left, in the Caliph's kitch- 
en, 
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
With him I proved no bargain- 
driver; 
With you, don't think I'll bate a 

stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fash- 
ion." 

"How?" cried the mayor, "d'ye 

think I'll brook 
Being worse treated tlian a cook ? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
AVitli idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your 

worst. 
Blow your i^ipe there till you biu'st ! " 

Once more he stept into the street; 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 

cane; 
And ere he blew three notes (such 

sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like 

a bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching 

and hustling; 
Small feet were pattering, wooden 

slices clattering. 
Little hands clapping, and little 

tongues chattering; 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when 

barley is scattering. 
Out came the children running. 
All the little boys and girls, 
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like 

pearls. 



Tripping and skipping, ran merrily 

after 
The wonderful music with shouting 

and laughter. 
The mayor was dumb, and the coun- 
cil stood 
As if they were clianged into blocks 

of wood, 
LTnable to move a step, or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by — 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the piper's 

back. 
But how the mayor was on the rack. 
And the wretched council's bosoms 

beat. 
As the piper turned from tlie High 

Street 
To wliere the Weser rolled its waters 
Eight in the way of their sons and 

daughters ! 
However, he turned from south to 
west, [dressed. 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad- 
And after him the children pressed; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 
" He never can cross that mighty top I 
He's forced to let the piping drop, 
And we shall see oin- children stop!" 
When, lo, as they reached the moun- 
tain's side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide. 
As if a cavern was suddenly hol- 
lowed ; 
And the piper advanced and the 

children followed; 
And when all were in, to the very 

last. 
The door in the mountain side shut 

fast. 
Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 
And could not dance the whole of the 

way ! 
And in after years, if you would 

blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, — 
" It's dull in our town since my play- 
mates left ! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the piper also promised me; 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous 

land. 
Joining the town and just at hand, 



^m 



69-4 



BROWNING. 



Where waters gushed and fruit-trees 

grew, 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
And every thing was strange and 

new ; 
The sparrows were brighter than pea- 
cocks here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow 

deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And liorses were born witli eagles' 

wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will. 
To go now limping as before, 
And never hear of that country 
more ! " 

Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 

There came into many a burgher's 

pate 
A text which says that Heaven's 



Opes to the rich at as easy rate 

As the needle's eye takes a camel in! 

The mayor sent east, west, north, and 
south, 

To offer the piper by word of mouth. 
Wherever it was men's lot to find 
him. 

Silver and gold to his heart's content. 

If he'd only return the way he went. 
And bring the children behind him. 

But Mhen they saw 'twas a lost en- 
deavor. 

And piper and dancers were gone for- 
ever. 

They made a decree that lawyers 
never 
Should think their records dated 
duly 

If, after the day of the month and 
year 



These words did not as well appear: 
' ' And so long after what happened 

here 
On the twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six;" 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children's last re- 
treat 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street; 
Where any one playing on pipe or 

tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his 

labor. 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
To shock with mirth a street so 

solemn ; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the great church window 

painted 
The same, to make the world ac- 
quainted 
Plow their children were stolen away; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such 

stress 
To their fathers and mothers having 

risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago. in a mighty band. 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick 

land. 
But how or why, they don't unibn*- 

stand. 
So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 
Of scores out with all men — especially 

pipers : 
And, whether they pipe us free from 

rats or from mice. 
If we've promised them aught, let us 

keep our promise. 



BURNS. 



695 



Robert Burns. 



TAM O' SHANTEll. 

A TALE. 

Brownyis and of Bogilis, full is this Buke. 
— Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the 

street, 
And (Irouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the napj)y,i 
An' getting fou and unco happy, 
We tiiinkna on the iang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame 
Gath'ring her brows like gatli'ring 

storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm'. 
This truth fand honest Tarn O' 

Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, Avham ne'er a town sur- 
passes. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae 

wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a 

skellum.- 
A blethering, blustering, drunken 

blellum ; ^ 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 
That ilka mekler,* wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as Iang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou 

on. 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on 

Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton^ Jane till 

Monday. 



She prophesy' d that, late or soon. 

Thou would be found deep drown' d 
in Doon ; 

Or catch" d wi' warlocks ^ i' the mirk,^ 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me 
greet,* 

To think how mony counsels sweet, 

How mony lengthen' d, sage advices, 

The husband frae the wife despises! 
But to our tale : A market night, 

Tam had got planted unco right ; 

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely. 

Wi' reaming swats,^ that drank di- 
vinely; 

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 

Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither: 

They had been fou for weeks the- 
gither. 

The night drave on wi' sangs and 
clatter ; 

And ay the ale was growing better; 

The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 

Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and pre- 
cious : 

The souteri'' tauld his queerest stories ; 

The landlord's laugh was ready 
chorus : [rustle, 

The storm without might rair and 

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sa happy. 

E'en drowned himself amang the 
nappy! [ure, 

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treas- 

The minutes wing'd their way wi' 
pleasure ; 

Kings may be blest, but Tam was 
glorious. 

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 
But pleasures are like poppies 
spread, [shed ; 

You seize the flow'r, its bloom is 



^ Ale. - Worthless fellow. s Idle talker. 

^ Every time that corn was sent to be ground. 

p Kirkton is the distinctive name of a village in wliicli the parish kirk stands. 

•"' Wizards. ' Dark. 8 Makes me weep. 

9 Frothing ale. '" Shoemaker. 



696 



BURNS. 



Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment wliite — then melts for 

ever : 
Or like the borealis race, 
That tlit ere you can point their place : 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
The hour approaches Tarn maun 

ride : 
That hour, o' night's black arch the 

key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast 

in; 
And sic a night he taks the road 

in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
The wind blew as ' tMad blawn its 

last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the 

blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness 

swallow'd; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder 

bellow' d; 
That night, a child might understand. 
The Deil had business on his hand. 
Weel mounted on his grey mare, 

Meg, 
A better, never lifted leg. 
Tarn skelpit i on throu' dub and 

mire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue 

bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots 

sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent 

cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly 

cry 
By this time lie was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman 

smoor'd;- 
And past the birks^ and meikle * 

stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck- 
bane; 



And thro' the whins, and by the 
cairn, 

Whare hunters fand the murder' d 
bairn ; 

And near the thorn, aboon the well, 

Whare Mungo's mither haug'd her- 
sel. 

Before him Doon pours all his 
floods ; 

The doubling storm roars thro' the 
woods ; 

The lightnings flash from pole to 
pole ; 

Near and more near the thunders 
roll: 

When, glimmering thro' the groan- 
ing trees. 

Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 

Thro' ilka bore^ the beams were 
glancing ; 

And loud resounded mirth and danc- 
ing. 
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us 
scorn ! 

Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil : 

Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil ! 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's 
noddle. 

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair aston- 
ish'd, 

Till, by the heel and hand admon- 
ished. 

She ventured forward on the light; 

And woM- ! Tam saw an luico sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance : 

Xae cotillion brent new frae France. 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and 
reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

At winnock-bunker'^ in the east. 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' 
beast ; 

A towzie'' tyke, black, grim, and 
large. 

To gie them music, was his charge: 

He screw'd the pipes and gart ^ them 
skirl,9 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 



1 Went at a smart pace. 

2 Smothered. 

3 Birches, 



4 Big. 

5 Hole in the wall. 
Window-seat. 



' Shaggy. 
* P'orceil. 
9 Scream. 



BUBNS. 



697 



Coffins stood roimd, like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last 

dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip ^ slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;- 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd 

bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had man- 
gled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The gray hairs yet stack to tlie heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awf u' , 
Which ev'n to name wad be im- 

lawfu'. 
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and 

curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and 

furious: 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker 

flew; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, 

they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies^ to the wark. 
And linket ^ at it in her sark ! 
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been 

queans 
A' i^lunip and strapping in their 

teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie ^ 

flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder 

linnen!'' 
Thir" breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue 

hair, 
I wad a gi'en them off my hurdles,^ 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 



But wither'd beldams, auld and 

droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowjiing and flinging on a crum- 

mock,'-* 
I wonder didna turn the stomach. 
But Tam kend what was what fu' 

brawlie, 
"There was ae winsome wench and 

walie," 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And iierish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and 

bear,i'5 
And kept the country-side in fear). 
Her cutty i^ sark, o' Paisley harn,i- 
That, while a lassie, she had M'orn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie — 
Ah! little kend thy reverend gran- 
nie. 
That sark she coft i^ for her wee 

Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her 

riches). 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 
But here my muse her wing maun 

cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane be- 

witch'd. 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' 

fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and 

main: 
Till first ae caper, syne i^ anither, 
Tam tint ^-^ his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty- 

sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark; 
And scarcely had he Maggie i-allied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 



1 Magic. 
- Irons. 

The manufacturing 
Cromek. 

1 These 

8 Loins. 

9 Short stair. 



3 Clotlies. 6 Greasy. 

^ Tripped along, 
term for a fine linen, woven in a reel of 1700 divisions.— 



" Barley. 

" Short. 

^- Very coarse linen. 



13 Bought. 
" Then. 
" Lost. 




698 



BURNS. 



As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,i 
When plundering herds assail theid 

byke;^^ *1 

As open pussie's mortal foes, ' 

Wlien, pop! she starts before their 

nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When, " Catch the thief !" resounds 

aloud ; 
80 Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and 

hollow. 
Ah, Tani! ah, Tam! thou'll get 

thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a her- 

rin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane ^ of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
P'or Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;* 
But little Avist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring bi-ought off her master 

hale. 
But left behind her ain gray tail; 
The carlin clauglit her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
Now, who this "tale of truth shall 

read. 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed; 



Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember 'J'am O' Chanter's mare. 



FROM THE "LIKES TO A LOUSE." 

Now baud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils,^ snug and tight; 
Na, faith ye yet! ye" 11 no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera topmost, tow'rhig height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;** 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On 's wyliecoat:'' 
But Miss's fine Lunardi!** fie. 

How daur ye do't? 

O ,Ienny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's'-* makin! 
Thae winks and finger-ends. 1 dread. 

Are notice takin ! 

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us 

And foolish notion ; 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e 
us. 

And ev'n devotion! 



1 Bustle, 2 Jrive. 

^ It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits have no power to follow 
a poor wight any farther than the middle of the liext running stream. It may be proper 
likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, 
whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning 
back. — K. B. 

* Effort. 5 Ribbon-ends. 

'■ An old-fashioned head-dress. ' Flannel vest. 

" A bonnet, named after Lunardi, whose balloon made him notorious in Scotland 
about 1785. 

" The shrivelled dwarf. 



Samuel Butler. 



[From Hiulibira.] 
THE LEARNING OF HUD IB R AS. 

Hk was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skill'd in analytic; 
He could distinguish and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west 

side; 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still con- 
fute. 
He'd undertake to prove, hy force 
Of argmnent, a man's no horse. 
He'd prove a huzzard is no fowl, 
And that a lord may be an owl, 
A calf an alderman, a goose a jus- 
tice, 
And rooks committee-men and trus- 
tees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation. 
And pay with ratiocination. 
All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure he would do. 
For Rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth, but out there flew a 

trope : 
And when he happened to break off 
In the middle of his speech, or cough. 
He had hard words ready to shew 

why. 
And tell what rules he did it by: 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You' d think he talk'd like other 

folk: 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
But, when he pleas' d to shew't, his 

speech. 
In loftiness of sound, was rich; 
A Babylonish dialect, 
AVhich learned pedants much affect. 
It was a party-color'd dress 
Of patch'd and piebald languages: 
'Twas English cut on Greek and La- 
tin, 
Like fustian heretofore on satin. 
It had an odd promiscuous tone, 
As if he'd talked three parts in 
one; 



Which made some think, when he 

did gabble, 
They'd heard three laborers of Babel; 
Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
A leash of languages at once. 
This he as volubly would vent 
As if his stock would ne'er be spent; 
And truly to support that clsarge, 
He had supplies as vast and large; 
For he could coin or counterfeit 
New words with little or no wit: 
Words, so debas'd and hard, no stone 
Was hard enough to touch them on: 
And when with hasty noise he spoke 

'em, 
The ignorant for current took 'em; 
That hail the orator, who once 
Did fill his mouth with ijebble-stones 
When he harangued, but known his 

phrase. 
He would have used no other ways. 
In Mathematics he was greater 
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater: 
For he, by geometric scale, 
Could take "the size of pots of ale; 
Resolve, by signs and tangents, 

straight. 
If bread or butter wanted weight; 
And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 
The clock does strike, by algebra. 
Beside he was a shrewd philosopher, 
And had read ev'ry text and gloss 

over. 
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath. 
He understood by implicit faith : 
AVhatever sceptic could inquire for, 
For ev'ry why he had a wherefore; 
Knew more than forty of them do. 
As far as words and terms could go : 
All which he understood by rote. 
And, as occasion serv'd, would quote 
No matter whether right or wrong, 
They might be either said or sung. 
His notions fitted things so well, 
Tliiit which was which he could not 

tell 
But oftentimes mistook the one 
For th' other, as great clerks have 

done. 



700 



BUTLER. 



He could reduce all things to acts, 
And knew their natures by abstracts ; 
Where entity and quiddity. 
The ghosts of defunct bodies fly. 
Where truth in person does appear, 
Like words cougeal'd in northern 

air. 
He knew what's what, and that's as 

high 
As metapliysic wit can fly. 



[From Iludibras.] 

THE BIBLICAL KSOW LEDGE AND 
IIELIGION OF HUDIBUAS. 

He knew the seat of Paradise, 
Could tell in what degree it lies; 
And, as he was disposed, could prove 

it 
Below the moon, or else above it: 
What Adam dreamt of, when his 

bride 
Came from her closet in his side; 
Whether the devil tempted her 
By a High-Dutch interpreter: 
If either of them had a navel : 
Who first made music malleable ; 
Whether the serpent, at the fall. 
Had cloven feet or none at all. 
All this without a gloss or comment. 
He could unriddle in a moment, 
In proper terms, such as men smat- 

ter. 
When they throw out and miss the 

matter. 
For his religion, it was fit 
To match his learning and his wit: 
'Twas Presbyterian true blue; 
For he was of that stubborn crew 
Of errant saints whom all men grant 
To be the true church militant; 
Such as do build their faith upon 
The holy text of pike and gun; 
Decide all controversies by 
Infallible artillery ; 
And prove their doctrine orthodox 
By apostolic blows and knocks. 

A sect whose chief devotion lies 
In odd perverse antipathies: 
In falling out with that or this. 
And finding somewhat still amiss : 



More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 
Than dog distract, or monkey sick; 
That with more care keep holy-day 
The wrong, than others the right 

way : 
Compound for sins they are inclined 

to, 
By damning those they have no mind 

to: 
Still so perverse and opposite, 
As if they worshipped God for spite. 
The self-same thing they will abhor 
One way, and long another for. 
Free-will they one way disavow; 
Another, nothing else allow. 
All piety consists therein 
In them, in other men all sin. 
Bather than fail they will decry 
That which they love most tenderly; 
Quarrel with minced pie, and dispar- 
age 
Their best and dearest friend, plum- 
porridge. 



[From lluilibrus.] 
THE KXIGHT'S STEED. 

The beast was sturdy, large, and 

tall. 
With mouth of meal, and eyes of 

wall. 
I wovdd say eye ; for he had but one. 
As most agree : tho' some say none. 
He was well stayed : and in his gait 
Preserved a grave majestic state. 
At spur or switch no more he skipt. 
Or mended pace than Spaniard 

whipt; 
And yet so fiery he would bound 
As if he grieved to touch the ground : 
That Ca?sar's horse, avIio as fame 

goes 
Had corns upon his feet and toes, 
AVas not by half so tender hooft. 
Nor trod upon the ground so soft. 
And as that beast would kneel and 

stoop 
(Some write) to take his rider up. 
So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 
Woidd often do to set him down. 
We sliall not need to say what lack 
Of leather was upon his back; 



BUTLER. 



701 



For that was hidden under pad, 

And breech of knight galled full as 
bad. 

His strutting ribs on both sides 
showed 

Like furrows he himself had 
ploughed ; 

For underneath the skirt of pannel. 

'Twixt every two tliere was a chan- 
nel. 

His draggling tail Ining in the 
dirt, 

Which on his rider he would flirt, 

Still as his tender side he pricked, 

Witla armed heel, or with unarmed, 
kiclved ; 



For Hudibras wore but one spur: 
As wisely knowing, could he stir « 
To active trot one side of 's horse, 
The other would not hang an arse. 



[From Hudibras.] 
THE PLEASURE OF BEING CHEATED, 

Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
Of being cheated, as to cheat: 
As lookers-on feel most delight, 
That least perceive a juggler's sleight : 
And still the less they understand, 
The more they admire his sleight of 
hand. 



William Allen Butler. 



FROM "NOTHING TO WEAR.'' 

Nothing to avear! Now, as this 
is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, 
is between us — 
That she's in a state of absolute nu- 
dity. 
Like Powers' Greek Slave or the 
Medici Venus ; 
But I do mean to say, I have heard 
her declare. 
When at the same moment she had 

on a dress 
Which cost five lumdred dollars, 

and not a cent less. 
And jewelry worth ten times more, 
I should guess, 
That she had not a thing in the wide 
world to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out 
of Miss Flora's 

Two hundred and fifty or sixty 
adorers, 

I had just been selected as he who 
should throw all 

The rest in the shade, by the gra- 
cious bestowal 

On myself, after twenty or thirty re- 
jections. 

Of those fossil remains which she 
called her "affections," 



And that rather decayed, but well- 
known work of art. 

Which Miss Flora persisted in styl- 
ing lier " heart." 

So we were engaged. Our troth had 
been plighted. 

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, liy 
fountain or grove. 

But in a front parlor, most brilliantly 
lighted, 

Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whis- 
pered our love. 

Without any romance, or raptures, 
or sighs. 

Without any tears in Miss Flora's 
blue eyes. 

Or blushes, or transports, or such 
silly actions. 

It was one of the quietest business 
transactions. 

With a very small sprinkling of sen- 
timent, if any, 

And a very large diamond imported 
by Tiffany. 

On her virginal lips while I printed a 
kiss, 

She exclaimed, as a sort of paren- 
thesis, 

And by way of putting me quite at 
my ease, 

" You know I'm to polka as much as 
I please, 



702 



BUTLER. 



And flirt when I like — now, stop, 
don't you speak — 

And you must not come liere more 
tlian twice in tlie week. 

Or tallv to me eitlier at party or ball. 

But always be ready to come when I 
call ; 

80 don't jirose to me about duty and 
stuff. 

If we don't lireak this off, there will 
be time enough 

For that sort of thing; but the bar- 
gain must be 

That, as long as I choose, I am per- 
fectly free, — 

For this is a kind of engagement, 
you see. 

Which is binding on you, but not 
binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'- 
Flimsey and gained her, 

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops 
that contained her, 

I had, as I thought, a contingent re- 
. mainder 

At least in the property, and the best 
riglit 

To appear as its escort by day and by 
night; 

And it being the week of the Stuck- 
ups' grand ball, — 
Their cards had been out a fort- 
night or so, 
And set all the Avenue on the tip- 
toe, — 

I considered it only my duty to call. 
And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 

1 found her — as ladies are apt to be 
found. 

When tlie time intervening between 
the first sound 

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is 
shorter 

Than usual — I found; I won't say 
I caught her. 

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly 
meaning 

To see if perhaps it did n't need 
cleaning. 

She turned as I entered — " Why 
Harry, you sinner, 

I thought that you went to the Flash- 
ers' to dinner ! ' ' 



" So I did," I replied, " but the din- 
ner is swallowed. 
And digested, 1 trust, for 't is now 
nine and more. 
So, being relieved from that duty, I 
followed 
Inclination, which led me, you see, 
to your door; 
And now Avill your ladyship so con- 
descend 
As just to inform me If you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and pres- 
ence to lend 
(All of which, when I own, I hope 

no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckups', wliose party, you 

know, is to-morrow? " 
The fair Flora looked up, with a 

pitiful air, 
And answered quite promptly, 

"Why, Harry, rnon clier, 
I should like above all things to go 

with you there. 
But really and truly — I've nothing 

to wear." 
"Nothing to wear! go just as you 

are; 
Wear the dress you have on, and 

you '11 be by far, 
I engage, the most bright and par- 
ticular star 
On the Stuckup horizon — " I 
stopped, for her eye. 
Notwithstanding tliis delicate onset 

of flattery, 
Openec>on me at once a most terrible 
battery 
Of scorn and amazement. She 
made no reply. 
But gave a slight turn to the end of 
her nose, 
(That pure Grecian feature,) as 
nuieh as to say, 
" IIow absurd that any sane man 

should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the 
clothes, 
No matter how fine, that she wears 
every day!" 

So I ventured again; "Wear your 

crimson brocade;" 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That 's 

too dark by a shade." 



BUTLER. 



703 



"Your blue silk" — "That's too 

heavy. " "Your pink" — 

" That's too light." 
Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't 

endure white." 
'■ Your rose-colored, then, the best 

of the batch " — 
" I have n't a thread of point-lace to 

match." 
"Your brown moire antique'' — 

"Yes, and look like a Quaker;" 
" The pearl-colored " — " 1 woUld, but 

that plaguy dress-maker 
Has had it a week." "Then that 

exquisite lilac, 
In which you would melt the heart 

of a bhylock;" 
(Here the nose took again the same 

elevation) — 
" I would n't wear that for the whole 

of creation." 
" Why not? It's my fancy, there 's 

nothing could strike it 
As more conime il J'ittit'" — " Y'es, 

but dear me, that lean 
Sophronia ytuckup has got one just 

like it. 
And I won't appear dressed like a 

chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that 

sweet Mazarine ; 
That superb 2^oint iV aiguille, that 

imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich 

grenadine " — 
"Not one of all which is fit to be 

seen," | flushed. 

Said the lady, becoming excited and 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone 

which quite crushed 
Opposition, "that gorgeous toi- 
lette wliich you sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand pre- 
sentation, 
When you quite turned the head of 

the head of the nation. 
And by all the grand court were 

so very much courted." 
The end of the nose was portent- 
ously tipped up, 
And both the bright eyes shot forth 

indignation, 
As she burst upon me with the fierce 

exclamation. 



" I have worn it three times, at the 
least calculation. 
And that and most of my dresses 
are rijiped up! " 



I have told you and shown you I 've 

nothing to wear, 
And it 's perfectly plain you not only 

don't cai'e. 
But you do not believe me," (here the 

nose went still higher), 
•• I suppose, if you dared, you would 

' call me a liar. 
Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, 

on the spot: 
You're a brute, and a monster, and 

— I don't know what." 
I mildly suggested the words Hot- 
tentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, 

and thief, 
As gentle expletives which might 

give relief; 
But this only proved as a spark to 

the powder, 
And the storm I had raised came 

faster and louder; 
It blew and it rained, thundered, 

lightened, and hailed 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till 

language quite failed 
To express the abusive, and then its 

arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a tor- 
rent of tears. 



AYell, I felt for the lady, and felt for 
my hat, too. 

Improvised on the crown of the lat- 
ter a tattoo. 

In lieu of expressing the feelings 
which lay 

Quite too deep for words, as Words- 
woi'th would say; 

Then, without going through the 
form of a bow. 

Found myself in the entry — I hardly 
knew how. 

On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp- 
post and square. 

At home and up stairs, in my owu 
easy-chair; 




704 



BTROM. 



Poked my feet into slippers, my 

fire into blaze. 
And said to myself, as I lit my 

cigar, 
" Supposing a man bad tbe wealth of 

a Czar 



Of tbe Russias to boot, for tbe 

rest of bis days, 
On tbe wbole, do you tbink be would 

bave luucb to spare. 
If be married a woman witli notliing 

to wear '? ' ' 



John Byrom. 



THE WAY A RUMOR IS SPREAD: 
OR, THE THREE BLACK CROlVS. 

Two bonest tradesmen meeting in 

tbe Strand, 
One took the other, briskly, by tbe 

hand ; 
Hark-ye, said be, 'tis an odd story 

tliis 
About tbe crows! — I don't know 

what it is, 
Replied bis friend. — No! I'm sur- 
prised at that; 
Where I came from it is tbe common 

chat; 
But you shall hear; an odd affair 

indeed ! 
And, that it happened, they are all 

agreed : 
Not to detain you from a thing so 

strange, 
A gentleman, tliat lives not far from 

Change, 
This week, in short, as all the alley 

knows. 
Taking a puke, has tlirown up three 

blac'lc crows, — 
Impossible! — Nay, l)ut it's really 

true ; 
I have it from good hands, and so 

may you. — 
From whose, I pray ? — So having 

named tbe man. 
Straight to inquire liis curious com- 
rade ran. 
Sir, did you tell — relating the af- 
fair — 
Yes, sir, I did: and if its worth your 

care. 
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me 
But, by tbe by, 'twas two black 

crows, not three. — 



Resolved to trace so wondrous an 

event. 
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso 

went; 
Sir — and so forth — Why, yes; tbe 

thing is fact, 
Though in regard to number, not 

exact; 
It was not two black crows, 'twas 

only one, 
The truth of that you may depend 

upon. 
The gentleman himself told me the 

case — 
Where may I find him? — Why, in 

sucli a place. 
Away goes lie, and having found 

him out. 
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt. 
Then to bis last informant be re- 
ferred, 
And begged to know, if true what 

be had beard? 
Did you, sir, throw up a black crow? 

—Not I — 
Bless me ! bow people propagate a lie ! 
Black crows have been thrown up, 

three, tico, and one; 
And here, I find, all comes, at last, to 

none! 
Did you say nothing of a crow at 

all? — 
Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now 

I recall 
The matter over — And, pray, sir, 

what was't ? 
Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the 

last, 
I did throw up, and told my neighbor 

so. 
Something that was — as black, sir, 

as a crow. 



CARELESS CONTENT. 

I AJi content, I do not care, 
Wag as it will the world for me ; 

When fuss and fret was all my fare, 
It got no ground as I could see: 

So when away niy caring went, 

I counted cost, and was content. 

With more of thanks and less of 
thought, 
I strive to make my matters meet; 
To seek what ancient sages sought. 

Physic and food in sour and sweet: 
To take what passes in good part, 
And keep the hiccups from the 
heart. 

With good and gentle-humored hearts, 
I choose to chat where'er I come, 

Whate'er the subject be that starts; 
But if I get among the glum, 

I hold my tongue to tell the truth. 

And keep my breath to cool my 
broth. 

For chance or change of peace or 
pain. 
For Fortune's favor or her frown, 
For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 

I never dodge, nor up nor down: 
But swing what Avay the shiiJ shall 

swim. 
Or tack about with equal trim. 

If names or notions make a noise, 

Wliatever hap the question hath, 
The point impartially I poise, 
And read or write, but without 
wrath ; 
For should I burn, or break my 

brains. 
Pray, who Mill pay me for my 
pains ? 

I suit not where I shall not speed. 
Nor trace the turn of every tide ; 

If simple sense will not succeed. 
I make no bustling, but abide : 

For shining wealth, or scaring woe, 

I force no friend, I fear no foe. 



Of ups and downs, of ins and outs. 
Of they're i' the ^rong, and we're 
i' the right, 

I shun the rancors and the routs ; 
And wishing well to every wight. 

Whatever turn the matter takes, 

I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 

With whom I feast I do not fawn. 
Nor if the folks should tlout me, 
faint: 
If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 
I cook no kind of a complaint: 
With none disposed to disagree. 
But like them best who best like 
me. 

Not that I rate myself the rule 

How all my betters should be- 
have ; 
But fame shall find me no man's 
fool. 
Nor to a set of men a slave : 
I love a friendship free and frank, 
And hate to hang upon a hank. 

Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
I never loose where'er I link; 

Though if a business budges by, 
I talk thereon just as I think; 

My word, my work, my heart, my 
hand. 

Still on a side together stand. 

I love my neighbor as myself, 
Myself like him too, by his leave ; 

Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf. 
Came I to crouch, as I conceive: 

Dame Nature doubtless has designed 

A man the monarch of his mind. 

Now taste and trj' this temper, sirs, 
Mood it and brood it in your 
breast ; 
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs. 
That man does right to mar his 
rest. 
Let me be deft and debonair, 
1 am content, I do not care. 



706 



BYRON. 



SPECTACLES, OR HELPS TO READ. 

A CERTAIN artist — I've forgot his name — 

Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, 

Or " lielps to read," as, wlien they first were sold. 

Was writ npon his glaring sign in gold ; 

And, for all uses to be had from glass. 

His were allowed by readers to snrpass. 

There came a man into his shop one day — 

" Are you the spectacle contriver, pray ? " 

" Yes, sir," said he; " I can in that affair 

Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." 

" Can you ? pray do then." So, at first, he chose 

To place a youngish pair upon his nose; 

And book produced to see how they would fit : 

Asked how he liked 'em '? " Like 'em ? not a bit." 

" Then, sir, I fancy, if yon please to try. 

These in my hand will better suit your eye." 

" No, but they don't." " Well, come, sir, if you please, 

Here is another sort, we'll e'en try these; 

Still somewhat more they magnify the letter; 

Now, sir '? " " Why, now — I'm not a bit the better." 

" No ? here, take these, that magnify still more; 

How do tliey fit ? " " Like all the rest before." 

In short they tried a whole assortment through. 
But all in vain, for none of 'em would do. 
The operator, much surprised to find 
So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind! 
" What sort of eyes can you have got ? " said he. 
" Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see." 
" Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball — 
Pray, let me ask you, can you read at all ?" 
"No, you great blockhead; if I could, what need 
Of paying you for any ' helps to read ?' " 
And so he left the maker in a heat, 
Eesolved to post him for an arrant cheat. 



Lord Byron. 



[From English Bards and Scotch Ee- 
riewers.] 

CRITICS. 

Oh! nature's noblest gift — my 
gray goose-quill I 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my 
will, 



Torn from thy parent bird to form a 
pen, 

That mighty instrument of little 
men ! 

The pen ! foredoomed to aid the men- 
tal throes 

Of brains that labor, big with verse 
or prose, 



CAMPBELL. 



707 



Though nymphs forsake, and critics 

may deride, 
The lover's solace and the author's 

pride. 
What wits, what poets, dost thou 

daily raise! 
How frequent is thy use, how small 

thy praise! 
Condemned at length to be forgotten 

quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine 

to write. 

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other 

fame; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my 

game. 
Speed, Pegasus I — ye strains of great 

and small. 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a 

a time 
I poured along the town a flood of 

rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise 

or blame; 
I printed — older children do the 

same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name 

in print; 
A book's a book, although there's 

nothing in't. 



A man must serve his time to every 

trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready 

made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller. 

got by rote. 
With just enough of learning to mis- 
quote : 
A mind well skilled to fuid or forge a 

fault ; 
A turn for punning, — call it Attic 

salt ; 
To Jeffrey go ; be silent and discreet, 
His pay is "just ten sterling pounds 

per sheet. 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky 

hit: 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill 

pass for wit; 
Care not for feeling — pass your 

proper jest. 
And stand a critic, hated, yet ca- 
ressed. 
And shall we own such judgment ? 

No — as soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in 

June; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in 

chaff; 
Believe a woman, or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves 

are sore. 



Thomas Campbell. 



SOXG. 

To T.ove in mv heart, I exclaimed, t'other morning. 
Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning 
Thou Shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty. 
To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty. 
For weary's the wooing, ah! weary, 
When an old man willhave a young dearie. 

The god left my heart, at its surly reflections. 
But came back" on pretext of some sweet recollections, 
And he made me forget what I ought to remember, 
That the rosebud of Jmie cannot bloom in November. 
Ah! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days — 
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. 



CANNING. 



But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching. 
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; 
And the only new lore my experience traces, 
Is to find fresli enchantment in magical faces. 

How weary is wisdom, how weary! 

When one sits by a smiling young dearie! 

And should slie be wroth that my homage pursues her, 
I will turn and retort on my lovely aceuser: 
Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted ? 
It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enclianted. 

Would you liave me behave more discreetly, 

Beauty, looli not so killingly sweetly. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM. 

An original something, fair maid, you would win me 

To write — but how shall I begin ? 
For I fear I have nothing original in me — 

Excepting Original Sin ! 



George Canning. 



THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 

This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at tlie U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sweet kerchief, checked witli heaven- 
blue. 
Which once my love sat knotting 
in — 
Alas, Matilda then was true! 
At least I thought so at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you 
flew, 
Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 



This faded form! this pallid hue! 
This blood my veins is clotting 
in! 
My years are many — they were few 
When first I entered at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

There first for thee my passion 
grew, 
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen I 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
tor, law ijrofessor at the U- 

niversity of (gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, 
adieu, 
That kings and priests are plotting 
in; 
Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
el, never shall I see the U- 

niversity of Gottingen. 
niversity of Gottingen, 



CARL ETON. 



709 



Will Carleton. 

THE NEW- YEAR'S BABY. 
" Th'art welcome, litle bonnie bird. 

But shouliln't }ia' come just when tha' flid. 

Teimes are bad." — Old EngHsh Ballad. 

Hoot, ye little rascal! ye come it on me tliis way 

Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day 

Knowin' tliat we already have three of ye, and seven, 

An' tryin' to malce yerself out a New- Year's present o' heaven! 

Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse, 
An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat,- and Nellie she have no shoes- 
And Sanimie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame) ; ' 

And the one that was just before you we a' n't had time to name. 

An' all the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folks fall; 
An' boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; 
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight; 
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night. 

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somew'at to do. 
An' but foi-the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, 
An' but for your poor, dear mother a-doin' twice her part, 
Ye"d 'a' seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start. 

An' now ye have come, ye rascal ! so healthy an' fat an' sound 
A weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound; 
^Vith your mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, 
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready to be filled. 

No, no, don't cry, my baby; hush up, my pretty one. 
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, my boy; I only was just in fun. 
Ye 11 like us when ye know us, although we're cur'ous folks - 
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes. ' 

Why, boy! did ye take me in earnest ? Come, sit upon my knee 
I 11 tell ye a secret, youngster; I'll name ye after me; 
Ye^shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play; 
An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day. 

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer ? I'm gettin' a trifle old. 
But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; 
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's'yer brothers there 
An not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair. 

Say, when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear 

Did ye see, 'inongst the little girls there, a face like this one here^ 

Ihat was yer little sister; she died a year ago. 

An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow. 

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew 
Came here Mitli all their traps, lioy, an' offered 'em for you, 
Id show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd, 
Before I'd sell to another my New- Year's gift from God 



710 



COLERIDGE. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



FROM "LIXES COMPOSED IX A 

coxcEUT room:' 

Xoii cold nor stern, my soul! yet I 
detest 
These scented rooms, where to a 
gaudy throng, 
Heaves the proud harlot her dis- 
tended hreast 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, 
nor deign 
To melt at Nature's passion-war- 
bled plaint; 
But when the long-breathed singer's 
uptrilled strain 
Bursts in a squall — they gape for 
wonderment. 



NAMES. 



I ASKED my fair, one happy day. 
What I should call her in my lay ; 

By what sweet name from Rome 
or Greece : 
Lalage, Netera, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia. or Doris, 

Arethusa, or Lucrece. 

" Ah! " replied my gentle fair, 

" Beloved, what are names but air ? 

Choose thou whatever suitsthe line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris. 
Call me Lalage or Doris, 

Only, only call me Thine." 



LIXES TO A COMIC AUTHOR OX 
AX ABUSIVE REVIEW. 

What though the chilly wide- 
mouthed quacking chorus 

From the rank swamps of nuirk Re- 
view-land croak ; 

So was it, neighbor, in the times be- 
fore us, 

When Momus, thro^\ing on his attic 
cloak. 



Romped with the Graces; and each 

tickled Muse 
(That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom 

bards call divine. 
Was married to — at least, he kept — 

* all nine) 
Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; 
Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to 

excuse, 
They had allured the audacious Greek 

to use. 
Swore they mistook him for their own 

good man. 
This Monuis — Aristophanes on earth 
Men called him — maugre all his wit 

and woi'th 
Was croaked and gabbled at. How, 

then, should you. 
Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulk- 
ing crew '? 
No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones 

of glee, 
" I hate the quacking tribe, and they 

hate me! " 



FROM "AX ODE TO THE RAIX." 

Composed before daylight, on the morning ap- 
pointed for the departure of a very worthy, 
but not very pleasant visitor, whom it was 
feared the rain might detain. 

Though you should come again to- 
morrow. 

And bring with you l)oth pain and 
sorro\v ; 

Though stomach should sicken and 
knees shotdd swell — 

I'll nothing speak of you but well. 

But only now for this one day. 

Do go, dear Rain! do go away! 

Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
You're a good creature in your way; 
Nay, I would Mrite a book myself, 
Would fit a parson's lower shelf. 
Showing how very good you are. 
What then '? sometimes it must be 

fair! 
And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 



COWPER, 



Dear Rain! if I've been cold and 
sliy, 

Take no offence! I'll tell you whj-. 

A dear old friend e'en now is here, 

And with him came my sister dear; 

After long absence now tirst met, 

Long months by pain and grief be- 
set — 

With three dear friends! in truth we 
groan — 

Impatiently to be alone. 

We three, you mai'k! and not one 
more ! 

The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 




We have so much to talk about, 
So many sad things to let out; 
So many tears in our eye-corners, 
Sitting like little Jacky Horners — 
In short, as soon as it is day. 
Do go, dear Kain ! do go away ! 



EPIGRAM ON " THE RIME OF 
THE ANCIENT MARINER " 

Your poem must eternal be, 
Dear sir; it cannot fail; 

For, 'tis incomprehensible. 
And without head or tail. 



William Cowper. 



JOHN GILPIN. 

JoHX Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renov.n, 
A train-band captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her 
dear — 

" Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister and my sister's child, 
Myself and children three. 

Will till the chaise; so you must ride 
On horselmck after we." 

lie soon replied — "I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-drav)er bold. 
As all the world doth know. 

And my good friend the calender 
Will lend his horse to go." 



Quoth Mrs. Gilpin ~ " That's well 
said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnished with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear.". 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife, 
O'erjoyed was he to find [bent, 

That, though on pleasure she was 
She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was 
brought. 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was 
stayed. 

Where they did all get in; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whii), round went 
the wheels. 

Were never folks so gl.ad. 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride. 
But soon came down again; 





w 


« 




712 COWPER. 


i 


For saddle-tree scarce reached bad he, 


So stooping down, as needs he must 




His journey to begin, 


Who cannot sit upright, 




When, turning round his head, lie 


He grasped the mane with both his 




saw 


hands, 




Three customers come in. 


And eke with all his might. 




So down be came ; for loss of time, 


His horse, who never in that sort 




Although it grieved him sore, 


Had handled been before. 




Yet loss of pence, full well he know, 


What thing upon his back had got 




Would trouble him much more. 


Did wonder more and more. 




'Twas long before the customers 


Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 




Were suited to their mind. 


Away went hat and wig; 




When Betty screaming came down 


He little dreamt, when he set out, 




stairs, 


Of running such a rig. 




" The wine is left behind !" 


The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 




" Good lack! " quoth he; " yet bring 


Like streamer long and gay. 




it me. 


Till, loop and Initton failing both, 




My leathern belt likewise. 


At last it flew away. 




In wliich I bear my trusty sword 






When 1 do exercise." 


Then might all people well discern 
The bottles he had slung ; 




Now Mrs. Gilpin (careful soul) 


A bottle swinging at each side. 




Had two stone bottles found. 


As hath been said or sung. 




To hold the liquor that she loved. 






And keep it safe and sound. 


The dogs did bark, the children 
screamed. 




Each bottle had a curling ear. 


Up flew the windows all ; 




Through which the belt he drew, 


And every soul cried out, "Well 




And hung a bottle on each side. 


done ! ' ' 




To make his balance true. 


As loud as he could bawl. 




Then over all. that he might be 


Away went Gilpin — v,-ho but he? 




Equipped from top to toe. 


His fame soon spread around — 




His long red cloak, well brushed and 


" He carries weight! he rides a race! 




neat, 


'Tis for a thousand pound ! " 




He manfully did throw. 


And still, as fast as he drew near. 




Now see him mounted once again 


'Twas wonderful to view 




Upon his nimble steed, 


How in a trice the turnpike-men 




Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 


Their gates wide open threw. 




With caution and good heed. 


And now. as he went bowing down 




But finding soon a smoother road 


His reeking head full low. 




Beneath his well-shod feet. 


The bottles twain behind his back 




The snorting l)east began to trot. 


AYere shattered at a blo\\'. 




Which galled him in bis seat. 


Down ran the wine into the road. 




So "Fair and softly," .lohn he cried; 


Most piteous to be seen. 




But John he cried in vain; 


Which made his horse's flanks to 






That trot became a gallop soon, 


smoke 




^ 


In spite of curb and rein. 


As they had basted been. 






COV/PEB. 



713 



But still he seemed to carry weight, 
With leathern girdle braced; 

For all might see the bottle-necks 
Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 
These gambols did he play, 

Until he came unto the Wash 
Of Edmonton so gay; 

And tliere he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way, 

Just like unto a trundling mop, 
Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's 
the house," — 
They all aloud did cry; 
"The dinner waits, and we are 
tired: " 
Said Gilpin — " So am I." 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there; 
For why ? — His owner had a house 

Full ten miles otf at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift lie flew. 

Shot by an archer strong; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore aiiainst his will. 
Till at his friend's the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 
His neighbor in such trim. 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
And thus accosted him : 

" What news ? what news ? your 
tidings tell. 

Tell me you nmst and shall ; 
Say why bare-headed you are come, 

Or why you come at all ?" 



Xow Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke : — 

" I came because your horse would 
come. 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here — 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin. 
Returned him not a single word. 

But to the house went in. 

Whence straight he came with hat 
and wig — 

A wig tliat flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus showed his ready wit; 

" My head is twice as big as yours, 
They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 
That liangs upon your face; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case." 

Said John — " It is my wedding-day, 
And ail the world would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I sliould dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came 
here. 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless 
boast ! 

For which he paid full dear; 
For while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 



714 



COW PER. 



Away went Gilpin, and^way 


Now let us sing, Long live the king, 


Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 


And Gilpin, long live he; 


He lost them sooner than at first; 


And when he next doth ride abroad, 


For why "? — They were too big. 


May I be there to see I 


Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 






Her hnsband posting down 




Into the country far away. 


[From Conversation.] 


She pulled out half a crown ; 


THE TONGUE. 


And thus unto the youth she said 


WoKDS learned by rote, a parrot 


That drove them to the liell, 


may rehearse. 


" This shall be yours when you bring 


But talking is not always to converse; 


back 


Not more distinct from harmony di- 


My husband safe and well." 


vine 




The constant creaking of a country 


The youth did ride, and soon did meet 


sign. 


John coming back amain, 


As alphabets in ivory employ 


Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 


Hour after hour the yet unlettered 


By catching at his rein: 


boy, 




Sorting and puzzling with a deal of 


But not performing what he meant. 


glee 


And gladly would have done, 


Those seeds of science called his 


The frightetl steed he frighted more, 


ABC; 


And made him faster run. 


So language in the mouth of the 




adult, 


Away went Gilpin, and away 


(Witness its insignificant result,) 


Went post-boy at his heels. 


Too often proves an implement of 


The post-boy's horse right glad to 


play. 


miss 


A toy to sport Viith, and pass time 


The lumbering of the wheels. 


away. 




Collect at evening what the day 


Six gentlemen upon the road 


brought forth. 


Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 


Compress the sum into its solid worth. 


With post-boy scamijering in the 


And if it weigh the importance of a 


rear. 


fly, 


They raised the hue and cry : 


The scales are false, or algebra a lie. 


" Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highway- 
man! " 
Not one of them was mute ; 






[From Conversation.] 


And all and each that passed that 
way 
Did join in the pursuit. 


THE UXCERTAIX MAX. 


DuBius is such a scrupulous good 


And now the turnpike-gates again 


nitiii — 
Yes, you may ca,tch him tripping — 


Flew open in short space; 


if you can. 


The tollmen thinking as before 


He would not with a peremptory 


That Gilpin rode a race. 


tone 




Assei't the nose upon his face his 


And so he did ; and won it too ; 


own : 


For he got first to town ; 


With hesitation admirably slow. 


Nor stopped till where he had got up 


He humbly hopes — presimies — it 


He did again get down. 


may be so. 



COWPEB. 



715 



His evidence, if he were called by 

law 
To swear to some enormity he srav, 
For want of prominence and just re- 
lief, 
Would hang an honest man and save 

a thief. 
Through constant dread of giving 

truth offence, 
He ties up all his liearers in suspense: 
Knows what he knows as if he knew 

it not; 
What he remembers seems to have 

forgot ; 
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
Centring at last in having none at 

afl. 



[From Conversation .'[ 
THE EMPHATIC TALKER. 

The emphatic speaker dearly loves 

to 0])pose, 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose. 
As if the gnomon on his neighbor's 

phiz. 
Touched with the magnet, had at- 
tracted his. 
His whispered theme, dilated and at 

large, 
Proves after all a windgun's airy 

charge — 
An extract of his diary, — no more, — 
A tasteless journey of the day before. 
He walked abroad, overtaken in the 

rain, 
Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped 

home again, 
Resumed his purpose, had a world of 

talk 
With one he stumbled on, and lost 

his walk. 
I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
"Adieu, dear sir I lest you should 

lose it now." 



[From Conversation.] 
DESCANTING ON ILLNESS. 

Some men employ their health, an 

ugly trick, 
In making known how oft they have 

been sick. 



And give us in recitals of disease, 

A doctor's trouble, but without the 
fees; 

Relate how many weeks they kept 
their bed. 

How an emetic or cathartic sped : 

Nothing is slightly touched, much 
less forgot. 

Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on 
the spot. 

Now the distemper, spite of draught 
or pill, 

Victorious seemed, and now the doc- 
tors skill; 

And now — alas, for unforeseen mis- 
haps ! 

They put on a damp nightcap and 
relapse : 

They thought they must have died, 
they were so bad ; 

Their peevish hearers almost wish 
they had. 



[From Conversation.] 

A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDI- 
NARY SOCIETY. 

The circle formed, we sit in silent 

state. 
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; 
'' Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," 

uttered softly, show 
Every five minutes how the minutes 

go; 
Each individual, suffering a con- 
straint — 
Poetry may, but colors cannot, 

paint, — 
As if in close committee on the sky, 
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or 

dry. 
And finds a changing clime a happy 

source 
Of wise reflection and well-timed 

discourse. 
We next inquire, but softly and by 

stealth. 
Like conservators of the public 

health. 
Of epidemic throats, if sitch there are 
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic 

and catarrh. 



That theme exhausted, a wide chasm 

ensues, 
Filled up at last with interesting 

news. 
Who danced with whom, and who 

are like to wed ; 
And who is hanged, and M'ho is 

brought to bed; 
But fear to call a more important 

cause, 
As if 'twere treason against English 

laws. 
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come. 
As from a seven years' transportation, 

home. 
And there resume an unembarrassed 

brow, 
Recovering what we lost we know 

not how, 
The faculties that seemed reduced to 

nought. 
Expression and the privilege of 

thouiiht. 



(From Conversation.'] 
THE CAPTIOUS. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every 

touch, 
You always do too little or too much : 
You speak with life in hopes to en- 
tertain. 
Your elevated voice goes through the 

brain ; 
You fall at once into a lower key. 
That's worse — the drone-pipe of an 

humble-bee. 
The southern sash admits too strong 

a light, 
You rise and drop the curtain — now 

'tis night. 
He shakes with cold, you stir the tire 

and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting 

him alive. 
Serve him with venison, and he 

chooses fish ; 
With sole — that's just the sort he 

wovdd not wish. 
He takes what he at first professed to 

loatlie. 
And in due time feeds heartily on 

both. 



PAIRING-TIME ANTICIPATED. 

A FABLE. 

I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau 
If birds confabulate or no; 
'Tis clear that they were always able 
To hold discourse, at least in fable; 
And even the child who knows no 

better 
Than to interpret by the letter, 
A story of a cock and bidl 
Must have a most uncommon skull. 

it chanced then on a winter's <lay, 
But waini and bright and calm as 

May, 
The birds, conceiving a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse, and grove 
Assembled on affairs of love. 
And with much twitter and much 

chatter 
Began to agitate the matter. 
At length a Bulfinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the 

most. 
Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak; 
And, silence publicly enjoined. 
Delivered briefly thus his mind : 
" My friends! be cautious how you 
treat 
The subject upon which we meet; 
1 fear we shall have Minter yet." 
A Finch, whose tongue knew no 
control. 
With golden wing and satin poll, 
A last year'sbird, who ne'erhad tried 
What marriage means, thus pert re- 
plied: 
" Methinks the gentleman," quoth 
she, 
" Opposite in the apple-tree. 
By his good-will would keep us single 
Till yonder heaven and earth shall 

mingle; 
Or (which is likelier to befall) 
Till death exterminates us all. 
1 marry without more ado; 
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" 
Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, 
bridling. 
Turning short round, strutting, and 
sidling. 



Attested, glad, his approbation 
Of an immediate conjugation. 
Their sentiments so well expressed 
Influenced mightily the rest; 
All paired, and each pair built a nest. 
But though the birds were thus in 

haste, 
The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
And destiny, that sometimes bears 
An aspect stern on man's affairs, 
Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
The wind, of late, breathed gently 

forth, 
Now shifted east, and east by north; 
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you 

know, [snow: 

Could shelter them from rain or 



Stepping into their nests they pad- 
dled, 
Themselves were chilled, their eggs 

were addled ; 
Soon every father bird and mother 
Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each 

other, 
Parted without the least regret, 
Except that they had ever met. 
And learned in future to be wiser 
Than to neglect a good adviser. 

MOKAL. 

Misses ! the tale that I relate 
This lesson seems to carry — 

Choose not alone a proper mate, 
But proper time to marry. 



George -Crabbe. 



[From The Neirspaper.] 
THE liELIGlOUS JOURNAL. 

Then, lo! the sainted Monitor is 
born, 

Whose pious face some sacred texts 
adorn. 

As artful sinners cloak the secret sin. 

To veil witli seeming grace the guile 
within; 

So moral essays on his front appear. 

But all his carnal business in the 
rear ; 

The fresh-coined lie, the secret whis- 
pered last, 

And all the gleanings of the six days 
past. 



[From The Newspajwr.] 
THE HEADERS OF DAILIES. 

Grave politicians look for facts 

alone. 
And gravely add conjectures of their 

own : 
The sprightly nymph, who never 

broke her rest. 
For tottering crowns, or mighty lands 

oppressed. 



Finds broils and battles, but neglects 
them all 

For songs and suits, a birthday, or a 
ball: 

The keen warm man o'erlooks each 
idle tale 

For "Moneys Wanted," and "Es- 
tates for Sale;" 

While some with equal minds to all 
attend. 

Pleased with each part, and grieved 
to find an end. 



[From The Newspaper.'\ 
liE PORTERS. 

First, from each brothers hoard a 

part they draw, 
A mutual theft that never feared a 

\civ; ; 
Whate'er they gain, to each man's 

portion fall, 
And read it once, you read it through 

them all: 
For this their runners ramble day and 

night. 
To drag each lurking deep to open 

light; 



718 



CRABBE. 



For daily bread the dirty trade they 

ply. 

Coin their fresli tales, and live upon 

the lie; 
Like bees for honey, forth for news 

they spring, — 
Industrious creatures! ever on the 

wing; 
Home to their several cells they bear 

the store, 
Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad 

for more. 



[From Physic.'] 
QUACKS. 

TixcTURE or syrup, lotion, drop, or 
pill. 

All tempt the sick to trust the lying 
bill; 

And twenty names of cobblers turned 
to squires, 

Aid the bold language of these blush- 
less liars. 

There are among them those who can- 
not read, 

And yet they'll buy a patent, and 
succeed ; 

Will dare to promise dying sufferers 
aid. 

For who, when dead, can threaten or 
upbraid ? 

And then, in many a paper through 

the year, 
Must cures and cases, oaths and 

proofs appear; 
Men snatched from graves, as they 

were dropping in. 
Their lungs coughed up, their bones 

pierced through their skin ; 
Their liver all one scirrhus, and the 

frame 
Poisoned with evils which they dare 

not name; 
Men who spent all upon jihysicians' 

fees. 
Who never slept, nor had a moment's 

ease. 
Are now as roaches sound, and all as 

brisk as bees. 



[From Law.] 

SLV LAWYERS. 

Lo ! that small office ! there th' in- 
cautious guest 
Goes blindfold in, and that maintains 

the rest; 
There in his web, th' observant spicier 

lies, |flies; 

And peers about for fat, intruding 
Doubtful at first, he hears the distant 

hum. 
And feels them fluff ring as they 

neai'er come; 
They buzz and blink, and doubtfully 

they tread 
On the strong bird-lime of the utmost 

thread ; 
But when they're once entangled by 

the gin, 
With what an eager clasp he draws 

them in! [delay, 

Nor shall they 'scape till after long 
And all that sweetens life is drawn 

away. 



[From The Patron.] 

ADVICE TO ONE OF SIMPLE LIFE 
ENTERING SOCIETY. 

In silent ease, at least in silence, 

dine. 
Nor one opinion start of food or wine: 
Thou know'st that all the science thou 

canst boast. 
Is of thy father's simple boiled and 

roast. 
Nor always these; he sometimes saved 

his cash. 
By intt>rlinear days of frugal hash: 
Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou 

be so vain 
As to decide on claret or champagne ? 
Dost thou from me derive this taste 

sublime, 
Who order port the dozen at a time ? 
When (every glass held precious in 

our eyes) 
AVe judged the value by the bottle's 

size: [sume, 

Then never merit for thy praise as- 
Its worth well knows each servant in 

the room. 



GRANCH. 



719 



[From The Patron.'] 

THE YOUNG POET'S VISIT TO 
THE HALL. 

And now arriving at the Hall, he 

tried 
For air composed, serene and satis- 
fied; 
As he had practised in his room alone, 
And there acquired a free and easy 

tone; 
There he had said, "Whatever the 

degree 
A man obtains, what more than man 

is he ■? " ' 
And when arrived — " This room is 

but a room, 
Can aught we see the steady sold 

o'ercome ? 
Let me in all a manly firmness 

show, 
Upheld by talents, and their vakie 

know." 



This reason urged; but it surpassed 
his skill 

To be in act as manly as in will ; 

When he his lordship and the lady 
saw. 

Brave as he was, he felt oppressed 
with awe ; 

And spite of verse, that so much 
praise had won, 

The poet found he was the bailiff's 
son. 
But dinner came, and the succeed- 
ing hours 

Fixed his weak nerves, and raised his 
failing powers : 

Praised and assured, he ventured once 
or twice 

On some remark, and bravely broke 
the ice; 

So that at night, reflecting on his 
words. 

He found, in time, he might con- 
verse with lords. 



Christopher Pearse Cranch. 

SHELLING PEAS. 

No, Tom. yon may banter as much as you please; 

But it's all the result of the shellin' them peas. 

Why, I had n't the slightest idee, do you know, 

That so serious a matter would out of it grow. 

I tell you v\hat, Tom, I do feel kind o' scared. 

I dreamed it, I hoped it, but never once dared 

To breathe it to her. And besides, 1 nuist say 

I always half fancied she fancied Jim Wray, 

So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care 

To be out of the way when that feller was there 

A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him 

That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim 

At Katy or Jim, — for it's all up with me; 

And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see ? 

But you would n't have thought it; that girl never keered 

The snap of a pea-pod for Jim's bushy beard. 

Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries 

Across near her garden to leave at Aunt Mary's; 

When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree. 

All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she — 

Shellin' peas — setting there on a garden settee. 

I swan, she was handsomer 'n ever I seen. 

Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green. 




GRANGE. 



Well, there wasn't no nse; so, says I, I'll jest linger 

And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa. 

But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened, 

So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened, 

And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well ; 

And — would she allow me to help her to shell ? 

For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas 

Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on her knees. 

" May I help you. Miss Katy ? " says I. " As you please, 

Mr. Baxter," says she. " But you're busy, I guess " — 

Glancin' down at my berries, and then at her dress. 

" Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late; 

And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Maiy can wait." 

So I sot down beside her; an' as nobody seen us, 

1 jest took the dish, and I held it between us. 

And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor 

To know wiiich she likes, Jim or me, now or never! 

But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held 

That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled; 

AnApop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin' 

Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkin' 

Come over my spirits; till at last I got out, 

'• Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt 

You see him quite often." " Well, sometimes. But why 

And what if I did ?" " O, well, nothin'," says I. 

" Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, tliough." 

" Who says so ? " says she; and she flared up like tow 

When you throw in a match. " Well, some folks that I know." 

" 'T ahi't true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod, 

Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod. 

Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down 

With a blush she tried to chase off with a frown. 

" Then it's somebody else you like better," says I. 

" No, it ain't though." says she; and I thought she would cry. 

Then I tried to say somethin' ; it stuck in my throat. 

And all my idees were upset and afloat. 

But I said I knew somebody 'd loved her so long — 

Though he never had told her — with feelin's so strong 

He was ready to die at her feet, if she chosed. 

If she only could love him! — I hardly supposed 

That she cared for him much, though. And so Tom, — and so, — 

For I thought that I saw how the matter would go, — 

With my heart all a jumpin' with fapture, I found 

I had taken her hand, and my arm was around 

Her waist ere I knew it, and she witli her head 

On my shoulder, — but no, I won't tell what she said. 

The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs; 

The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs. 

I tell you the world was a new world to me. 

I can talk of these things like a book now, you see. 

But the peas ? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess 

Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess. 

It's risky to set Mith a girl shellin' peas. 

You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please. 



CRANCH. 



721 



THE DISPUTE OF THE SEVEN DAYS. 

Once on a time the days of the week 
Quarrelled and made bad weather. 

The point was which of the seven 
was best; 
So they all disputed together. 

And Monday said, " I wash the 
clothes " ; 
And Tuesday said, " I air 'em" ; 
And Wednesday said, " I iron the 
shirts" ; 
And Thursday said, " I wear 'em." 

And Friday, " I'm the day for fish " ; 

And Saturday, " Children love 

me" ; 

And Suu,day, "I am the Sabbath 

day, 

I'm sure there are none above me." 

One said, " I am the fittest for 
work" ; 
And one, " I am fittest for leisure." 
Another, "I'm best for prayer and 
praise"; [ure." 

And auotlier, " I'm best for pleas- 
Arguing thus, they flapped their 
wings. 
And puffed up every featlier; 
They blew and rained and snowed 
and liailed: 
There never was seen such weather. 

Old P'ather Time was passing by, 
And heard the hurly-burly. 

Said he, "Here's something going 
wrong ; 
It's well I was up so early. 

"These children of mine have lost 
their wits 

And seem to be all non compos. 
1 never knew them to gabble thus. 

Hollo there! — stop the rumpus! 

'* I should think you a flock of angry 
geese. 
To hear your screaming and bawl- 
ing. 
Indeed, it would seem by the way it 
snows, 
Goose-feathers are certainly falling. 



"You. Sunday, sir, with your starched 
cravat. 

Black coat, and church-veneering: 
Tell me the cause of this angry spat; 

Speak loud, — I am hard of hearing. 

" Yon are the foremost talker here; 

The wisest sure you should be. 
I little thought such a deuce of a row 

As you are all making, could be." 

Then Simday said, " Good Father 
Time, 

The case is clear as noonday; 
For ever since the world was made. 

The Lord's day has been Sunday. 

"The church — " Here Monday 
started u}): 
" The folks are glad when you 
leave 'em; 
They all want me to give 'em work, 
And the pleasures of which you 
bereave 'em." 

But Tuesday said, " I finish your 

chores, 

And do them as fine as a fiddle." 

And Wednesday, " I am the best of 

you all 

Because I stand in the middle." 

And Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 
each 
Said things that I can't remember. 
And so they might have argued their 
case 
From March until December. 

But Father Tempus cut them short: 
" My children, why this pother"? 

There is no best, there is no worst; 
One day 's just like another. 

•• To God's great eye all shine alike 
As in their primal beauty. 

That day is best whose deeds are best. 
That worst that fails in duty. 

" Where Justice lights the passing 
hours, 

Where Love is wise and tender, 
There beams the radiance of the skies, 

There shines a day of splendor." 



LOB SOX— DUYDEN. 



Austin Dobson. 

MORE POETS YET! 

" More poets yetl " — 1 bear him say. 
Aiming his heavy hand to slay; — 

" Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' 
They seem to sprout where'er I go; — 
I killed a host but yesterday ! " 

Slash on, O Hercules! You may: 
Your task's at best a Hydra-fray; 
And though you cut, not less will grow 
More poets yet ! 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first bliml motions of the May ? 

Who shall ontljiot the morning glow. 

Or stem the full heart's overflow? 
Who ? There will rise, till time decay. 
More poets yet ! 



John Dryden. 



[From " Absalom and Achitophel."] 
A CHAIiACTEIi. 

A -MAN so various that he seemed to 

be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
Stiff in opinions, always in the 

wrong ; 
Was everything by starts, and notliing 

long; 
But, in the course of one revolving 

moon. 
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and 

buffoon : 
Then all for women, painting, rliym- 

ing, drinking. 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died 

in thinking. 
Blest madman, wlio cotild every hour 

employ, 
With something new to wish, or to 

enjoy ! 
Railing and praising were his usual 

themes ; 



And both, to show his judgment in 
extremes: 

So over-violent, or over-civil. 

That everv man with liim was God or 
Devil. 

In squandering wealth was his pecu- 
liar art; 

Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 

Beggared by fools, wliom still he found 
too late; 

He had his jest, and they had liis 
estate. 



FROM "THE COCK AND THE FOX." 

A FOX, full-fraught Avith seeming 

sanctity, 
That feared an oath, but, like the 

devil, would lie; 
Who looked like Lent, and liad the 

holy leer. 
And durst not sin before he said his 

prayer;. 



DBYDEN. 



723 



This pious cheat, that never sucked 

the blood. 
Nor chewed the flesli of lambs, — 

but when he could ; 
Had passed three summers in the 

neighboring wood: 
And musing long, whom next to cir- 
cumvent. 
On Chanticleer his wicked fancy 

bent ; 
And in liis high imagination cast, 
By stratagem to gratify his taste. 
The plot contrived, before the break 

of day. 
Saint Reynard through the hedge had 

made his way ; 
The pale was next, but proudly with 

a bound 
He leapt the fence of the forbidden 

ground : 
Yet fearing to be seen, within a bed 
Of coleworts he concealed his wily 

head ; 
Then skuilced t 11 afternoon, and 

watched bio time, 
{As murderers use) to perj^etrate his 

crime. 

The rock, that of his flesh Avas ever 

free. 
Sung merrier than the mermaid in the 

sea: 
And so befell, that as he cast his eye 
Among the coleworts on a butterfly. 
He saw false Keynard where he lav 

full low: 
I need not swear he had no list to 

crow : 
But cried, cock, cock, and gave a sud- 
den start, 
As sore dismayed and frighted at his 

heart. 
For birds and beasts, informed by 

Nature, know 
Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their 

foe. 
So Chanticleer, who never saw a 

fox. 
Yet slumii'd him as a sailor shuns the 

rocks. 
But the false loon, who could not 

work his will 
By open force, employed his flattering 

skill ; 



I hope, my lord, said he, I not offend ; 
Are you afraid of me, that am your 

friend ? 
I were a beast indeed to do you 

wrong, 
I, who have loved and honored you so 

long: 
Stay, gentle sir, nor take a false 

alarm. 
For on my soul I never meant you 

harm. 
I come no spy, nor as a traitor press. 
To learn the secrets of your soft re- 
cess : 
Far be from Reynard so profane a 

thought. 
But by the sweetness of your voice 

was brought : 
For, as I bid my beads, by chance I 

heard 
The song as of an angel in the yard ; 

My lord, your sire familiarly I 

knew, 
A peer deserving such a son as you: 
He, with your lady-mother, (whom 

Heaven rest) 
Has often graced my house, and been 

my guest : 
To view his living features does me 

good, 
For I am your poor neighbor in the 

wood ; 
And in my cottage shoidd be proud 

to see 
The worthy heir of my friend's 

family. 
But since I speak of singing, let 

me say. 
As with an upright heart I safely 

may, 
That, save yourself, there breathes 

not on the ground 
One lilve your father for a silver- 
sound. I day. 
So sweetly would he wake the winter- 
That matrons to the church mistook 

their way. 
And thought they heard the merry 

organ play. 
And he to raise his voice with artful 

care, 
(What will not beaux attempt to 

please the fair ?) 




724 



DRY DEN. 



On tiptoe stood to sing with greater 

strength, 
And stretch'd his comely neck at all 

the length : 
And while he strained his voice to 

pierce the skies, 
As saints in raptures use, would shut 

his eyes. 
That the sound striving through the 

narrow throat. 
His winking might avail to mend the 

note. 

The cock was pleased to hear him 

speak so fair, 
And proud beside, as solar people 

are; 
Nor could the treason from the truth 

descry, 
►So was he ravish'd with this flattery: 
.So much the more, as from a little 

elf, 
He had a high opinion of himself; 
Though sickly, slender, and not large 

of limb. 
Concluding all the world was made 

for him. 

This Chanticleer, of whom the 

story sings, 
Stood high upon his toes, and clapp'd 

his wings; 
Then stretch'd his neck, and wink'd 

with both his eyes. 
Ambitious as he sought the Olympic 

prize. 
But while he pained himself to raise 

his note, 
False Reynard rushed, and caught 

him by the throat. 
Then on his back he laid the precious 

load, 
And sought his wonted shelter of the 

wood ; 
Swiftly he made his way, the mischief 

done. 
Of all imheeded, and pursued by 

none. 

But see how Fortune can confound 
the wise. 
And when they least expect it, turn 
the dice. 



The captive cock, who scarce could 

draw his breath. 
And lay within the very jaws of 

death ; 
Yet in this agony his fancy wrought, 
And fear supplied him with this 

happy thought: 
Yours is the prize, victorious prince, 

said he, 
The vicar my defeat, and all the 

village see. 
Enjoy your friendly fortune while 

you may, 
And bid the churls that envy you the 

pi-ey, 
Call back their mongrel curs, and 

cease tlieir cry. 
See, fools, the shelter of the wood is 

nigh. 
And Chanticleer in your despite shall 

die. 
He shall be plucked and eaten to the 

bone. 
'Tis well advised, in faith it shall 

be done ; 
This Reynard said: but as the word 

lie spoke. 
The prisoner with a spring from pris- 
on broke: 
Then stretch'd his feathered fans with 

all his might. 
And to the neighboring maple winged 

his flight. 
Whom when the traitor safe on tree 

beheld, 
He cursed the gods, with shame and 

sorrow filled ; 
Shame for his folly, sorrow out of 

time. 
For plotting an unprofitable crime ; 
Yet mastering both, the artificer of 

lies 
Renews the assault, and his last bat- 
tery tries. 
Though I, said he, did ne'er In 

thought offend. 
How justly may my lord suspect his 

friend '? 
The appearance is against me, I con- 
fess. 
Who seemingly have put yon in dis- 
tress : 



This, since you take it ill, I must re- 
pent. 

Though Heaven can witness, with no 
bad intent | cheer 

I practised it, to make you taste your 

With double pleasure, first prepared 
by fear. 

Descend! so help me Jove I as you 

shall find 
That Keynard conies of no dissem- 
bling kind. 
Nay, quoth the cock ; but I beshrew 
us both, 
If I believe a saint upon his oath: 
An honest man may take a knave's 

advice. 
But idiots only may be cozened twice: 
Once warned is well bewared. Not 
flattering lies 



Shall soothe me more to sing with 
winking eyes. 

And open mouth, for fear of catch- 
ing flies. 

Who blindfold walks upon a river's 
brim, 

AVhen he should see, has he deserved 
to swim ? 

Better, Sir Cock, let all contentions 
cease, 

Come down, said Reynard, let us treat 
of peace. 

A peace with all my soul, said Chan- 
ticleer ; 

But, M'ith your favor, I will treat it 
here: 

And lest the truce with treason should 
be mix'd, 

'Tis my concern to have the tree be- 
twixt. » 



John Gay. 



THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 

Friendship, like love, is but a 

name. 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child, whom many fathers share. 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendships; who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend. 
A hare, who, in a civil way. 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the 

plain; 
Her care was never to offend ; 
And every creature was her friend. 
As forth she went at early dawn. 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder 

flies. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for 

breath. 
She hears the near advance of death ; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound. 
And measures back her mazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way. 
Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay. 



What transport in her bosom grew 
When first the horse appeared in view ! 
" Let me," says she, " yom' back 
ascend. 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight: 
To friendship every burden 's light." 
The horse replied, "Poor honest, 
puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus: 
Be comforted, relief is near, 
For all your friends are in the rear." 
She next the stately bull implored; 
And thus replied the mighty lord: 
" Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
To leave you thus might seem un- 
kind; 
But, see, the goat is just behind." 
The goat remarked, " Her pulse 
was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye: 
My back." says he, "may do you 

harm ; 
The sheep's at hand, and wool is 
warm." 



726 



HALPINE. 



The sheep was feeble, ami com- 
plained, 

" His sides a load of wool sustained; 

Said he was slow, confessed his fears ; 

For hounds eat sheep as well as 
hares." 
She now the trotting calf addressed ; 

To save from death a friend dis- 
tressed. 
" Shall I," says he, "of tender age, 

In this important care engage ? 

Older and abler passed you by; 

IIow strong are those! how weak 
am I! 

Should I presume to bear you hence. 

Those friends of mine may take of- 
fence. 

Excuse me, then ; you know my heart ; 

But dearest friends, alas! must part. 

How shall we all lament! Adieu; 

For see, the hounds are just in view." 



THE MOTHER, THE NURSE, AND 
THE FAIRY. 

" Give me a son." The blessing 

sent, 
Were ever parents more content ? 
How partial are their doting eyes! 
No child is half so fair and wise. 
AVaked to the morning's pleasing 

care. 
The mother rose and sought her heir. 
She saw the nurse like one possest. 
With wringing hands and sobbing 

breast. 



" Sure, some disaster has befell; 

Speak, nurse, I hope the boy is well." 
" Dear madam, think not me to 
blame ; 

Invisible the fairy came: 

Your precious babe is hence con- 
veyed, 

And in the place a changeling laid. 

Where are the father's mouth and 
nose ? 

The mother's eyes, as black as sloes ? 

See, here, a shocking awkward crea- 
ture. 

That speaks a fool in every featm-e." 
*' The woman 's blind," the mother 
cries, 

" I see wit sparkle in his eyes." 
" Lord, madam, what a squinting 
leer ! 

Xo doubt the fairy hath been here." 
Just as she spoke, a prying sprite 

Pops through the keyhole swift as 
light; 

Perched on the cradle's top he stands, 

And thus her folly reprimands: 
"Whence sprung the vain, con- 
ceited lie. 

That we with fools the world supply ? 

What! give our sprightly race away 

For the dull, helpless sons of clay! 

Besides, by partial fondness shown, 

Like you, we dote upon our own. 

When yet was ever found a motlier 

Who'd give her booby for another '? 

And should we change with human 
breed, 

Well might we pass for fools indeed." 



Charles Graham Halpine (Miles O'Reilly). 



QUAKEUDOM,- A FORMAL CALL. 



Through her forced, abnormal 

quiet 
Flashed the soul of frolic riot. 
And a most malicious laughter lighted 
up her downcast eyes ; 
All in vain I tried each topic. 
Ranged from polar climes to tropic, 
Every conunonplace I started met 
with yes-or-uo replies. 



For her mother — stiff and stately. 

As if starched and ironed lately — 

Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded 

thus in curving palms; 

There she sat on guard before 

us, 
And in words precise, decorous. 
And most calm, reviewed the weather, 
and recited several psalms. 



HARTE. 



727 



How without abruptly ending 
Tliis my visit, and otfendiug 
Wealtliy iieiglibors, was the prol)leni 
which employed my mental 
care ; 
When the butler, bowing lowly, 
Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
" Madam, please, the gardener wants 
you," — Heaven, I thought, 
has heard my prayer. 

" Pardon me!" shegrandly uttered; 
Bowing low. I gladly muttered, 
"Siu-ely, Madam!" and, relieved I 

turned to scan the daughter's 

face : 
Ha! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
From beneath those pencilled 

lashes ! 
How the drill of Quaker custom yields 

to Nature's brilliant grace. 

Brightly springs the prisoned foun- 

■^tain [tain 

From the side of Delphi's moun- 



When the stone that weighed upon its 
buoyant life is thrust aside ; 
So the long-enforced stagnation 
Of the maiden's conversation 
Now imparted fivefold brilliance to 
its ever-varying tide. 

Widely ranging, quickly changing, 
Witty, winning, from beginning 
Unto enil 1 listened, merely flinging 
in a casual word ; 
Eloquent, and yet how sunple! 
Hand and eye, and eddying dimi)le, 
Tongue and lip together made a 
music seen as well as heard. 

When the noonday woods are ring- 
ing* . . 
All the birds of summer singing, 
Suddenly there falls a silence, and we 
know a serpent nigh : 
So upon the door a rattle 
Stopped our animated tattle. 
And the stately mother found us prim 
enough to suit her eye. 



Bret Harte. 



DOW'S FLAT. 

Dow''!^ Flat. That's its name. 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same ? 
Well, I thought it was true, 
For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass ; 
And as to the how 

Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
Just tie up your hoss to tliat buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass. 

You see this yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck; 
He slipped up someliow 

On each thing thet he struck. 
Why, pf he'd a' straddled that fence-rail the derned thing 'ed get up and 
buck. 



72» 



HAUTE. 



He mined on the bat- 
Till he couldn't pay rates; 
He was smaslied by a car 

When he tunnelled with Bates; 
And right on the top of his trouble keni his wife and five kids from the 
States. 

It was rough, — mighty rough; 
But the boys they stood by, 
And they brought him the stuff 
For a house, on the sly ; 
x\.nd the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took on when no one 
was nigh. 

But this yer luck of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean 
That tlie spring near his liouse 
Drieu right up on the green ; 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. 

Then the bar petered out, 

And the boys wouldn't stay; 
And the chills got about. 

And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow. in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. 

One day, — it was June, — 

And a year ago, jest, — 
This Dow kem at noon 

To his work like the rest. 
With a sliovel and pick on Ins shoulder, and a derringer hid in his breast. 

He goes to the well. 

And he stands on the brink. 
And stops for a spell 
Jest to listen and think: 
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you sec, kinder made the cuss 
bluik. 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play. 
And a gownd that was Sal's 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leavln', but his all, — as I've hecr'd the folks say. 

And — that's a peart hoss 

Thet you've got — ain't it now ? 
What might be her cost ? 
Eh '? Oil !— Well then, Dow — 
Let's see, —well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved in the side. 
And he looked and turned sick, 
Then he trembled and cried ; 
For you see the dern cuss liad struck — " Water ?" — Beg your parding, 
young man, there you lied ! 



HARTE. 



729 



It was (jold, — in the quartz, 

And it ran all alike; 
And 1 reckon live oughts 

Was the worth of that strike; 
And that house with the coopilow's his'n, — which the same isn't bad for 
a Pike. 

Thet's why it's Dow' s Hat; 

And the thing of it is 
That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrairiness: 
For 'twas icater the derned ciiss was seekin', and his luck made him certain 
to miss. 

Thet's so. Thar's your way 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say. 
Won't you come up to tea ? 
No? Well, then the ne.\t time you're passin' ; and ask after Dow, — and 
thet's nte. 



PLAIN LAXGUAGE FIIOM TRUTH- 
FUL JAMES. 



POPULAULY KNOWN AS THE 
CHINEE." 



HEATHEN 



Which I wish to remark — 
And my language is plain — 

That for ways that are dark 
And for tricks that are vain. 

TJie heatlien Chinee is peculiar: 
Which the same I would rise to 
explain. 

Ah Sin was liis name; 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply ; 
But liis smile it was pensive and 
childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third. 

And quite soft was the skies, 
^Vliich it might be inferred 

Tliat Ah Sin wasUkewise; 
Yet he played it that day upon Wil- 
liam 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 
And Ah Sin took a hand: 

It was euchre. Tlie same 
He did not understand. 



But he smiled as he sat by the table. 
With the smile that was childlike 
and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that 1 grieve. 
And my feelings were shocked 
At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stuffed full of aces and 
bowers, 
And the same with intent to de- 
ceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen CHiinee, 
And the points that he made, 

AVere quite frightful to see, — 
Till at last he put down a right 
bower. 
Which the same Nye had dealt 
unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 
And he gazed upon me; 
And he rose with a sigli. 

And said, " Can this be '? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap 
labor," — 
And he went for tliat heathen 
Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand. 



730 



HA Y 



But the floor it was strewed, 

Like tlie leaves on the strand, 
Witli the cards tliat Ah Sin had been 
liiding 
In the game "he did not under- 
stand." 

In his sleeves, wliich were long, 
He had twenty-four jaclcs, — 

Which was coming it strong, 
Yet I state but the facts. 



And Ave foimd on his nails whicli 

were taper, — [ wax. 

What is frequent in tapers, — that's 

Wliich is why I remark. 
And my language is plain, 

That for ways that are dark. 
And for tricks tliat are vain, 

The lieathen Chinee is peculiar, — 
Wliich the same I am free to main- 
tain. 



John Hay. 



LITTLE BREECHES. 

I don't go much on religion, 

I never ain't had no show; 
But I've got amiddlin' tiglit grip, sir. 

On the liandf 111 of things I know. 
I don't pan out on the prophets 

And free-will, and that sort of 
thing, — 
But I b'lieve in God and tlie angels. 

Ever sence one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips. 

And my little Gabe came along, — 
No four-year-old in tlie county 

Could beat liim for pretty and 
strong. 
Peart and chipper and sassy. 

Always ready to swear and fight, — 
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker 

Jest to Iveep his milk-teetli white. 

The snow come down like a blanlcet 

As I passed by Taggart's store; 
I went in for a jug of molasses 

And left the team at tlie door. 
They scared at something and start- 
ed, — 

I heard one little squall, 
And liell-to-split over the prairie. 

Went team. Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-spMt over the prairie! 

I was almost froze with skeer; 
But we rousted up some torches, 

And sarched for 'em far and near. 



At last we struck bosses and wagon. 
Snowed under a soft white mound, 

Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe 
No hide nor liair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me. 

Of my fellow-critter's aid, — 
I jest flopped down on my marrow- 
bones, 
Crotcli-deep in the snow, and 
prayed. 
By this, the torches was played out, 

And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheep- 
fold 
That he said was somewhar thar. 

We found it at last, and a little shed 
Where tliey sliut up the lambs at 
night. 
We locked in and seen tliem hud- 
dled thar. 
So warm and sleepy and white; 
And THAR sot Little Breeclies and 
cliirped. 
As peart as ever you see. 
" I want a chaw of terbacker. 
And that's wliat's the matter of 



How did he git thar? Angels. 

He could never have walked in 
tliat storm ; 
They jest scooped down and toted 
him 
To wliar it was safe and warm. 



HAY. 



731 



And 1 think that saving a little child, 
And bi'inging him to liis own, 

Is a denied sight better business 
Than loafing round the Throne. 



JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE 
BELLE. 

Wall, no! 1 can't tell whar he 
lives, 
Because he don't live, you see; 
Leastways, he's got out of the habit 

Of iivin' like you and me, 
Whar have you been for the last 
three year 
That you have'nt heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his 
checks 
The night of the Prairie Belle ? 

He weren't no saint, — them engi- 
neers 

Is all pretty much alike, — 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And another one here, in Pike; 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward hand in a row, 
But he never flunked, and he never 
lied, — 

1 reckon he never knowed how. 

And this was all the religion he 
had, — 

To treat his engine well; 
Never be passed on the river 

To mind the pilot's bell; 
And if ever the Prairie Belle took 
fire, — 

A thousand times he swore. 
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their d-ay on the Mis- 
sissip. 
And her day come at last. — 



The Movastar was a better boat. 
But the Belle she wouldn't be 
passed. 
And so she came tearin' along that 
night — 
The oldest craft on the line — 
With a nigger squat on her safety- 
valve. 
And her furnace crammed, rosin 
and i)ine. 

The fire burst out as she dared tlie 
bar. 
And burnt a hole in the night. 
And quiclv as a flash she turned, and 
made 
For that wilier-bank on the right. 
There was runnin' and cursin', but 
Jim yelled out. 
Over all tlie infernal roar, 
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the liank 
Till the last galoot's ashore." 

Through the hot, black breath of the 
burnin' boat 
Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
And they all had trust in his cussed- 
ness, 
And knowed he would keep his 
word. 
And sure's you're born, they all got 
off 
Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He weren't no saint, — but at jedg- 
ment 
I'd run my chance with Jim, 
'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
That wouldn't shook hands with 
him. 
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 

And went for it thar and then; 
And Christ ain't a going to be too 
hard 
On a man that died for men. 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL 
CORRESPONDENTS. 

Yes, ■H'l'ite, if you want to, there's 
iiothinc; like trying; 
Who knows what a treasure your 
casket may hold ? 
I'll show you that rhyniing's as easy 
as lying 
If you'li listen to nie while the art 
I unfold. 

Here's a book full of words: one can 
choose as he fancies, 
As a painter his tint, as a workman 
his tool ; 
Just think! all the poems and plays 
and romances 
Were drawn out of this, like the 
fish from a pool ! 

You can wander at will through its 
syllabled mazes. 
And take all you want, — not a 
copper they cost, — 
What is there to hinder your picking 
out phrases 
For an epic as clever as " Paradise 
Lost" ? 

Don't mind if the index of sense is at 
zero. 
Use words that run smoothly, 
whatever they mean ; 
Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero 
Are much the same thing in the 
rhyming machine. 

There are words so delicious their 
sweetness will smother 
That boarding-school flavor of which 
we're afraid, — 
There is '*lush" is a good one, and 
" swirl " is another, — 
Put both in one stanza, its fortune 
is made. 

With musical murmurs and rhythmi- 
cal closes 
You can cheat us of smiles when 
you've nothing to tell; 



You hand us a nosegay of milliner's 
roses. 
And we cry with delight, " O, how 
sweet they do smell!" 

Perhaps you will answer all needful 
conditions 
For winning the laurels to which 
you aspire. 
By docking the tails of the two prep- 
ositions 
I' the style o' the l)ards you so 
greatly admire. 

As for subjects of verse, they are 
only too plenty 
For ringing the changes on metri- 
cal chimes: 
A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of 
twenty. 
Have filled that great basket with 
bushels of rhymes. 

Let me show you a picture — 'tis fur 
from irrelevant — 
By a famous old hand in the arts 
of design; 
'Tis only a photographed sketch of 
an elephant, — 
The name of the draughtsman was 
Rembrandt of Rhine. 

How easy ! no troublesome colors to 
lay on. 
It can't have fatigued liini, — no, 
not in the least, — 
A dash here and there with a haj)- 
hazard crayon, 
And there stands the wrinkled- 
skinned, baggy-limbed beast. 

Just so with your verse, — 'tis as easy 
as sketching, — 
You can reel off a song without 
knitting your brow, 
As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing 
or etching; 
It is nothing at all, if you only 
know how. 



HOLMES. 



733 



Well: imagine you've printed your 
volume of verses ; 
Yoiu- forehead is wreathed with 
the garland of fame, 
Your poem the eloquent school-boy 
rehearses. 
Her album the school-girl presents 
for your name ; 

Each morning the post brings you 
autograph letters ; 
You'll answer them promptly,— 
an hour isn't nuich 
For the honor of sharing a page with 
your betters, 
With magistrates, members of Con- 
gress, and such. 

Of course you're delighted to serve 
the committees 
That come with requests from the 
country all round; 
Y^ou would grace the occasion with 
poems and ditties 
When they've got a new school- 
house, "or poorhouse or pound. 

With a hymn for the saints and a 
song for the sinners. 
You go and are welcome wherever 
you please ; 
Y'ou're a privileged guest at all man- 
ner of dinners. 
You've a seat on the platform 
among the grandees. 

At length your mere presence be- 
comes a sensation, 
Your cup of enjoyment is filled to 
its brim 
With the pleasure Horatian of digit- 
monstration, 
As the whisper runs round of 
" That's he ! " or " That's him !" 

But remember, O dealer in phrases 
sonorous, 
So daintily chosen, so tunefully 
matched, 
Though you soar with the wings of 
the cherubim o'er us. 
The ovum was human from which 
you were hatched. 



No will of your own with its puny 
compulsion 
Can summon the spirit that quick- 
ens the lyre; 
It comes, if at all, like the sibyl's 
convulsion 
And touches the brain with a finger 
of fire. 

So perhaps, after all, it's as well to 
be quiet. 
If you've nothing you think is 
worth saying in prose. 
As to furnish a meal of their canni- 
bal diet 
To the critics, by publishing, as 
you propose. 

But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry 
I've written, — 
I shall see your thin volume some 
day on my shelf ; 
For the rhyming tarantula surely has 
bitten. 
And nuisic must cure you, so pipe 
it yourself. 

THE StiPTEMBER GALE. 

I'm not a chicken: I have seen 

Full many a chill September, 
And though I was a youngster then. 

That gale I well remember; 
The day before my kite-string 
snapped. 

And I, my kite pursuing, 
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf 
hat, — 

For me two storms were breMing! 

It came as quarrels sometimes do, 

When married folks get clashing; 
There was a heavy sigh or two, 

Before the fire was flashing, — 
A little stir among the clouds. 

Before they rent asunder, — 
A little rocking of the trees, 

And then came on the thunder. 

Lord: how the ponds and rivers 
boiled I 

They seemed like bursting craters! 
And oaks lay scattered on the ground 

As if they wore p'taters; 



734 



HOOD. 



And all above was in a howl, 
And all below a clatter, — 

The earth was like a frying-pan, 
Or some such hissing matter. 

It chanced to be our washing-day, 

And all our things were drying; 
The storm came roaring through the 
lines. 

And set them all a flying; 
I saw the shirts and petticoats 

Go riding oi¥ like witches: 
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, — 

I lost my Sunday breeches ! 

I saw them straddling through the air, 

Alas ! too late to win them ; 
I saw them chase the clouds, as if 

The devil had been in them ; 
They were my darlings and my pride, 

My boyhood's only riches, — 
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried: 

" My breeches' O my breeches!" 



That night I saw them in my dreams, 
How changed from what I knew 
them ! 
The dews had steeped their faded 
threads. 
The winds had whistled through 
them ! 
I saw the wide and ghastly rents 
AVhere demon claws liad torn 
them ; 
A hole was in their amplest part, 
As if an imp had worn them. 

I have had many happy years, 

And tailors kind anil clever. 
But those young pantaloons have 
gone 

Forever and forever! 
And not till fate has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches. 
This aching heart shall cease to 
mourn 

My loveil, my long-lost breeches ! 



Thomas Hood. 



TO MY IXFAAT SOX. 

Tiiou happy, happy elf ! 
(But stop; first let me kiss away that 

tear. ) 
Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his 

ear, ) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite, 
With spirits, feather light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled 

by sin. 
(My dear, the child is swallowing a 

pin!) 

Tliou little tricksy Puck! 

"Willi antic toys so funnily bestuck. 

Light as the singing bird that wings 

the air, — 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble 

down the stair!) 
Thou darling of thy sire! 
(Why. .lane, he'll set his pinafore 

atire!) 
Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 



In love's dear chain so bright a link. 
Thou idol of thy parents; — (Drat 
the boy I 
There goes my ink. ) 

Thou cherub, but of earth; 

Fit playfellow for fairies, by moon- 
light pale. 
In harmless sport and mirth, 

(That dog will bite him, if he piUls 
his tail!) 
Thou human humming-bee, ex- 
tracting honey 

From every blossom in the world that 
blows. 
Singing in youth's Elysium ever 
sunny, — 

( Another tumble ! That's his precious 
nose!) 

Thy father's pride and hope! 

(He'll break the mirror with that 
skipping-rope!) 

With pure heart newly stamped from 
Natiu'e's mint, 

(Where did he learn that squint ?) 



HOOD. 



Thou young domestic dove! 

(He'll have'that ring off with another 

shove, ) 
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 
(Are these torn clothes his best ?) 
Little epitome of man! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his 

plan.) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of 

dawning life, 
(He's got a knife!) 
Thou enviable being! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky 

foreseeing, 
Play on, play on, 
My el tin John! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the 

stick, — 
(I knew so many cakes would make 

iiim sick!) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle- 
down, 
Prompting the feat grotesque, and 

antic brisk. 
With many a lamb-like frisk! 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at 

your gown ! ) 
Thou pretty opening rose! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe 

your nose!) 
Balmy and breathing music like the 

south, 
(He really brings my heart into my 

mouth!) [dove; 

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the 
( I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above. ) 



JOHN DAY. 

Jonx Day he was the biggest man 
Of all the coachman kind. 

With back too bi'oad to be conceived 
By any narrow mind. 

The very horses knew his weight 

When he was in the rear. 
And wished his box a Christmas-box 

To come but once a year. 

Alas! against the shafts of love 

What armor can avail ? 
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through 

His scarlet coat of mail. 



The bar-maid of the Crown he loved, 
From whom he never ranged ; 

For though he changed his liorses 
there. 
His love he never changed. 

He thought her fairest of all fares. 

So fontUy love prefers; 
And often, among twelve outsides. 

Deemed no outside like hers. 

One day, as she was sitting down 

Beside the porter-pump. 
He came, and knelt witli all his fat. 

And made an offer plump. 

Said she, " My taste will never learn 

To like so huge a man. 
So I must beg you will come here 

As little as you can." 

But still he stoutly in-ged his suit. 
With vows, and sighs, and tears. 

It could not pierce her heart, al- 
though 
He drove the " Dart" for years. 

In vain he wooed, in vain lie sued; 

The maid was cold and proud, 
And sent him off to Coventry, 

While on his way to Stroud. 

He fretted all the way to Stroud, 
And thence all back to town; 

The course of love was never smooth, 
So his went up and down. 

At last her coldness made him pine 
To merely bones and skin. 

But still he loved like one resolve 1 
To love through thick and thin. 

" O Mary! view my wasted back. 
And see my dwindled calf; 

Though I have never had a wife. 
I've lost my better half." 

Alas! in vain he still assailed. 
Her heart withstood the dint; 

Though he had carried sixteen stone, 
He could not move a flint. 

Worn out, at last he made a vow 
To l)reak his being's link: 

For he was so reduced in size 
At nothhig he could shrink. • 



HOOD. 



Now some will talk in waters praise, 
And waste a deal of breath, 

Ikit John, though he drank nothing 
else, 
He drank himself to death. 

The cruel maid that caused his love, 

P^ound out the fatal close. 
For looking in the butt, she saw 

The butt-end of his woes. 

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, 

But that is only talk — 
For after riding all his life. 

His ghost objects to walk. 



NUMBER ONE. 

It's very hard ! — and so it is, 

To live in such a row, — 

And witness this, that every Miss 

But me has got a beau. 

For Love goes calling up and down. 

But here he seems to shun ; 

I am sure he has been asked enough 

To call at Number One! 

I'm sick of all the double knocks 

That come to Number Four! 

At Number Three I often see 

A lover at the door; 

And one in blue, at Number Two, 

Calls daily, like a dun. — 

It's very hard they come so near, 

And not to Number One ! 

^liss Bell, I hear, has got a dear 

Exactly to her mind, — 

P.y sitting at the window-pano 

Without a bit of blind; 

But I go in the balcony, 

Which she has never done; 

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five 

Don't take at Number One. 

"Tis hard, with plenty in the street. 

And plenty passing by, — 

'J'here's nice young men at Number 

Ten, 
But only rather shy; 
And Mrs. Smith across the way 
Has got a grown-up son. 
But, la! he hardly seems to know 
There is a Number One! 



There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, 

But he's intent on pelf; 

And though he's pious, will not love 

His neighbor as himself. 

At Number Seven there was a sale — 

The goods had quite a run! 

And here I've got my single lot 

On hand at Number One ! 

My mother often sits at work. 

And talks of props and stays. 

And what a comfort 1 shall be 

In her declining days: 

The very maids about the house 

Have set me down a nun. 

The sweethearts all belong to them 

That call at Number One! 

Once only, when the fine took fire, 

One Friday afternoon, 

Young Mr. Long came kindly in 

And told me not to swoon : 

Why can't he come again, without 

The Pha='nix and the Sun ? 

We cannot always have a flue 

On fire at Number One ! 

I am not old : I am not plain ; 
Nor awkwai'd in my gait — 
I am not crooked like the bride 
That went from Number Eight: 
I'm sure white satin made her look 
As brown as any bun — 
But even beauty has no chance, 
I think, at Number One ! 

At Number Six they say Miss Rose 

Has slain a score of hearts. 

And Cupid, for her sake, has been 

CJuite prodigal of darts. 

The Imp they show with bended 

bow, 
I wish he had a gun! 
But if he had he'd never deign 
To shoot with Number One! 

It's very hard, and so it is, 

To live in such a row! 

And here's a ballad-singer come 

To aggravate my woe : 

Oh. take away your foolish song. 

And tones enough to stun — 

There is "Naeluck about the house," 

I know, at Number One! 



I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 

Well, I confess, 1 dkl not guess 

A simple maii'iage vow 
Would make me find all women-kind 

kSucIi unkind women now! 
They need not, sure, as dlslunt be 

As Java or Japan, — 
Yet every Miss reminds me this — 

I'm not a single man! 

Once they made choice of my bass 
voice 

To share in each duet; 
So well 1 danced, 1 somehow chanced 

To stand in every set: 
They now declare I cannot sing, 

And dance on Bruin's plan; 
Me draw ! — me paint ! — me any- 
thing!— 

I'm not a single man! 

Once I was asked advice, and tasked 

What works to buy or not, 
And '* would I read that passage out 

I so admired in Scott ? '' 
They then could bear to hear one read ; 

But if I now began. 
How they would snub, "My pretty 
page," — 

Tm not a single man ! 

One used to stitch a collar then, 

Another hemmed a frill; 
I had more pm-ses netted then 

Than I could hope to fill. 
I once could get a button on, 

But now I never can — 
My buttons then were Bachelor's — 

I'm not a single man! 

Oh, how they hated politics 

Thrust on me by papa: 
But now my chat — they all leave that 

To entertain mamma: 
Mamma, who praises her own self, 

Instead of Jane or Ann, 
And lays " her girls" upon the shelf — 

I'm not a single man! 

Ah me, how strange it is, the change, 

In parlor and in hall, 
They treat me so. if I but go 

To make a morning call. 



If they had hair in papers once. 
Bolt up the stairs they ran; 

They now sit still in dishabille — 
I'm not a single man! 

Miss Mary Bond was once so fond 

Of Romans and of Greeks; 
She daily sought my cabinet 

To study my antiques. 
Well, now she doesn't care a dump 

For ancient pot or ]ian, 
Her taste at once is modernized — 

I'm not a single man! 

My spouse is fond of homely life. 

And all that sort of thing; 
I go to balls without my wife. 

And never wear a ring: 
And yet each Miss to whom I come. 

As strange as Genghis Khan, 
Knows by some sign I can't divine — 

I'm not a single man! 

Go where I will, I but intrude, 

I'm left in crowded rooms. 
Like Zimmerman on Solitude, 

Or Hervey at his Tombs. 
From head to heel they make me feel 

Of quite another clan : 
Compelled to own, thougli left alone, 

I'm not a single man ! 

Miss Towne the toast, though she can 
boast 

A nose of Roman line, 
Will turn up even that in scorn 

At compliments of mine: 
She should have seen that I have been 

Her sex's partisan, 
And really married all I could — 

I'm not a single man ! 

'Tis hard to see how others fare, 

Whilst I rejected stand, — 
Will no one take my arm because 

They cannot have my hand ? 
Miss Parry, that for some would go 

A flip to Hindostan, 
With me don't care to mount a stair — 

I'm not a single man ! 

Some change, of course, should be in 
force, 
But, surely, not so much — 



738 



HOOD. 



There may be hands I may not 
squeeze, 

But must I never touch ? 
Must I forbear to hand a chah- 

And not pick up a fan ? 
But I have been myself picked up — 

I'm not a single man ! 

Others may hint a lady's tint 

Is purest red and white, — 
May say her eyes are like the skies. 

So very blue and bright — 
I must not say that she has eyes, 

Or if I so began, 
1 have my fears about my ears — 

I'm not a single man! 

I must confess I did not guess 

A simple marriage vow. 
Would make me find all women-kind 

Such unkind women now; 
I might be hashed to death, or 
smashed. 

By Mr. Pickford's van, 
Without, I fear, a single tear — 

I'm not a single man! 



THE DOUBLE KNOCK. 

Eat-tat it went upon the lion's 

chin ; 
"That hat, I know it!'' cried the 

joyful girl; 
" Summer's it is, I know bin) by his 

knock ; 
Comers like him are welcome as the 

day! 
Lizzie ! go down and open the street 

door; 
Busy I am to any one but him. 
Know liim you must — he has been 

often here; 
Show him upstairs, and tell lum I'm 

alone." 

Quickly the maid went tripping down 

the stair; 
Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda 

beat ; 
"Sure he has brought me tickets for 

the play — 
Drury — or Covent Garden — darling 

man! 



Kemble will play — or Kean. who 

makes the soul 
Tremble in Richard or llie frenzied 

Moor — 
Farren, the stay and prop of many a 

farce 
Barren beside — or Liston, Laugh- 
ter's child — 
Kelly, the natural, to witness whom 
Jelly is nothing to the public's jam — 
('ooper, the sensible — and Walter 

Knowles 
Super, in William Tell, now rightly 

told. 
Better — perchance, from Andrews, 

brings a box, 
Letter of boxes for the Italian stage — 
Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul! 
No card — thank Heaven — engages 

me to-night! 
Feathers, of course — no turban and 

no toque — 
Weather's against it, but I'll go in 

curls. 
Dearly I dote on white — my satin 

dress. 
Merely one night — it won't be much 

the worse — 
Cupid — the new ballet I long to 

see — 
Stupid! why don't she go and ope the 

door? ' ' 

Glistened her eye as tlie impatient 
girl 

Listened, low bending o'er the top- 
most stair. 

Vainly, alas ! she listens and she 
bends. 

Plainly she hears this question and 
reply : 

"Axes your pardon, sir, but what 
d'ye waiit ? " 

" Taxes," says he, " and shall not 
call again! " 



THE CIGAR. 

Some sigh for this and that, 
My wishes don't go far. 

The world may wag at will, 
So I have my cigar. 



HOOD. 



739 



Some fret themselves to death, 
With AVhig and Tory jar; 

I don't care which Is in, 
So I have my cigar. 

Sir John requests my vote. 
And so does Mr. Marr; 

I don't care how it goes, 
So I liave my cigar. 

Some want a German row. 
Some wish a Russian war. 

I care not — I'm at peace — 
So I have my cigar. 

I never see the Post, 
I seldom read the Star, 

The Globe I scarcely heed, 
So I have my cigar. 

They tell me that bank stock 
Is sunk much under par, 

It's all the same to me. 
So I have my cigar. 

Honors have come to men, 
My juniors at the bar. 

No matter — I can wait, 
So I have my cigar. 

Ambition frets me not; 

A cab, or glory's car 
Are just the same to me, 

So I have my cigar. 

I worship no vain gods, 

But serve the household Lar : 

I'm sure to be at home. 
So I have my cigar. 

I do not seek for fame, 
A general with a scar; 

A private let me be, 
So I have my cigar. 

To have my choice among 
The toys of life's bazaar. 

The deuce may take them all. 
So I have my cigar. 

Some minds are often tost 
By tempests, like a Tar; 

1 always seem in port, 
So I have my cigar. 



The ardent flame of love. 
My bosom cannot char; 

I smoke, but do not burn, 
So I have my cigar. 

They tell me Nancy Low 
Has mari-ied Mr. li : 

The jilt ! but I can live. 
So I have my cigar. 



FAITHLESS XELLY GRAY. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 
And used to war's alarms: 

But a cannon-ball took otf his legs, 
So he laid down his arms I 

Now, as they bore him off the field, 
Said he. " Let others shoot, 

For here I leave my second leg. 
And the Forty-second P'oot ! " 

The army surgeons made him limbs: 
Said he, " They're only pegs; 

But there 's as wooden members 
quite. 
As represent my legs! " 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
Her name was Nelly Gray; 

So he went to pay her his devours 
When he'd devoured his pay! 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
She made him quite a scoff; 

And when she saw his wooden legs, 
Began to take them off ! 

" O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 

Is this your love so warm ? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat. 

Should be more uniform! '" 

Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
For he was blithe and brave; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave ! 

" Before you had those timber toes, 

Your love I did allow. 
But then, you knoM', you stand upon 

Another footing now! " 



740 



HOOD. 



" O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 

For all your jeering speeches, 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's breacliea ! ^^ 

" Why, then," said she, "'you've lost 
the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms, 
And now you cannot wear yoiu* shoes 

Upon your feats of arms!" 

" Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray; 

I know why you refuse: [man 

Though I've no feet — some other 

Is standing in my shoes! 

" I wish I ne'er had seen your face; 

But, now. a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death; — alas! 

You will not be my Nell .' "' 

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got — 
And life was such a burthen grown. 

It made him take a knot ! 

So round his melancholy neck 

A rope he did entwine. 
And, for his second time in life. 

Enlisted in the Line! 

One end he tied around a beam, 
And then removed his pegs, 

And, as his legs were otf, — of course. 
He soon was off his legs ! 

And there he hung till he was dead 

As any nail in town, — 
For though distress had cut him up, 

It eoidd not cut him down! 

A dozen men sat on his corpse. 
To find out why he died — 

And they buried Ben in four cross- 
roads. 
With a atake in his inside! 



FAITHLESS SALLY BROlfX. 

Young Ben he was a nice young 
man, 

A carpenter hy trade. 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

That was a lady's maid. 



But as they fetched a walk one day, 
They met a press-gang crew ; 

And Sally she did faint away, 
AVhilst Ben he was brought to. 

The boatswain swore with wicked 
words. 

Enough to shock a saint. 
That though she did seem in a fit, 

'Twas nothing but a feint. 

" Come, girl," said he, "hold up your 
head. 

He'll be as good as me; 
For when your swain is in our boat, 

A boatswain he will be." 

So when they'd made their game of 
her, 

And taken off her elf. 
She roused, and found she only was 

A coming to herself. 

" And is he gone, and is he gone?" 
She cried, and wept outright : 

" Then I will to the water side. 
And see him out of sight." 

A waterman came up to her: 
"Now. young woman." said he, 

'■ If you weep on so. you will make 
Eye-water in the sea." 

" Alas! they've taken my beau Ben 
To sail with old Benbow; " 

And her woe began to run afresh. 
As if she'd saitl Gee woe! 

Says he, '' They've only taken him 
To the Tender ship, you see;" 

" The Tender ship," cried Sally 
Brown, 
What a hard-ship that must be! 

"Oh ! would I were a mermaid 
now. 

For then I'd follow him; 
But, oh! — I'm not a fisb-woman. 

And so I cannot swim. 

'•Alas! I was not born beneath 
The Virgin and the Scales, 

So I must curse my cruel stars, 
And walk about in Wales." 




Now Ben had sailed to many a 
place 
That's miderneath the world; 
IJut in two years the ship came 
liome, 
And all her sails were fm'led. 

But when he called on Sally Brown, 

To see how she went on, 
He found she'd got another Ben, 

Whose Christian name was John. 

" O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, 
How could you serve me so ? 

I've met with many a breeze before. 
But never such a blow.'' 



Then reading on his 'bacco-box, 

He heaved a bitter sigh, 
And then began to eye his pipe, 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing, '• \.ll 's 
Well." 
But could not, though he tried; 
His head was turned, and so he 
chewed 
His pigtail till he died. 

[berth, 
His death, which happened in his 

At forty-odd befell : 
They went and told the sexton, and 
The sexton tolled the bell. 



THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 

How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose, their books, 
Are snai-ed by anglers,— folks that fish with literary Hooks, — 
Who call an(i take some favorite tome, but never read it through; — 
They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you. 

I, of my " Spenser " quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken; 
Of " Lamb " I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my '* Bacon;" 
And then I saw my " Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, backward go; 
And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my " Rowe." 

My '• Mallet " served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker; 
And once, when I was out of town, my " Johnson " proved a " Walker." 
While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my '• Hobbes," amidst the smoke, 
They bore my " Colman " clean away, and carried off my " Coke." 

They picked my " Locke," to me far more than Braraah's patent worth. 

And now my losses I deplore, without a " Home " on earth. 

If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal. 

For though 1 caught them stealing " Swift," as swiftly went my " Steele." 

" Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; 
But what is strange my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. 
My little " Suckling " in the grave is simk to swell the ravage; 
And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose, — a "' Savage." 

Even " Glover's " works I cannot put my frozen hands upon ; 
Though ever since I lost my " Foote," my " Bunyan " has been gone. 
My " Hoyle " with " Cotton " went oppressed ; my " Taylor." too, must fail; 
To save my " Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered " Bayle." 

I " Prior" sought, but could not see the " Hood" so late in front; 

And when I turned to hunt for " Lee," oh! where was my " Leigh Hunt" ? 

I tried to laugh, old cai-e to tickle, yet could not " Tickle "' touch ? 

And then, alack! I missed my " Mickle," — and surely Mickle 's nuich. 



742 



HOPKINSON. 



'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse. 

To think 1 cannot read my " Reid," nor even use my " Hughes; " 

My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hojied; 

Like Dr. Primrose, 1 may cry, my " Livy " has eloped. 

My life is ebbing fast away ; 1 suffer from these shocks, 
And though 1 fixed a lock on " Gray," there's gray upon my locks; 
I'm far from " Young," am growing pale, I see my '* Butler" fly; 
And when they ask about my ail, 'tis " Burton," 1 reply. 

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide; 
For, oh! they cured me of my " Burns," and eased my " Akenside." 
But all I think 1 shall not say, nor let my anger burn. 
For, as they never found me " Gay," tliey have not left me " Sterne.' 



Francis Hopkinson. 



THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS. 

Gallants, attend and hear a friend 
Trill forth harmonious ditty ; 

Strange things I'll tell which late be- 
fell 
In Philadelphia city. 

'Twas early day, as poets say, 
Just when the sun was rising, 

A soldier stood on a log of wood, 
And saw a thing suri^rising. 

As in amaze he stood to gaze, 
The truth can't be denied, sir, 

He spied a score of kegs or more 
Come floating down the tide, sir. 

A sailor too, in jerkin blue. 
This strange appearance viewing. 

First rubbed his eyes, in great sur- 
prise, 
Then said some mischief 's brewing. 

These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold 
Packed up like pickled herring; 

And they're come down t' attack the 
town. 
In this new way of ferrying. 

The soldier flew, the sailor too. 
And scared almost to death, sir, 

Wore out their shoes, to spread the 
news. 
And ran till out of breath, sir. 



Now up and down throughout the 
town 

Most frantic scenes were acted ; 
And some ran here, and others there, 

Like men almost distracted. 

Some fire cried, which some denied, 
But said the earth had quaked; 

And girls and boys, with hideous 
noise. 
Ran through the streets half naked. 

From sleep Sir William starts upright. 
Awaked by such a clatter; 

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries. 
For God's sake, what's the matter ? 

At his bedside he then espied 
Sir Erskine at command, sir; 

Upon one foot lie had one boot. 
And til' other in his hand, sir. 

" Arise, arise! " Sir Erskine cries; 

'■ The rebels — more 's the pity — 
Without a boat are all afloat. 

And ranged before the city. 

"The motley crew, in vessels new, 
^Vith Satan for their guiile, sir, 

Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs. 
Come driving down the tide, sir. 

" Therefore prepare for bloody war; 

These kegs must all be routed. 
Or surely we despised shall be. 

And British courage doubted." 



LANDOE. 



743 



The royal band now ready stand, 
All ranged in dread array, sir, 

With stomach stout, to see it out. 
And make a bloody day, sir. 

The cannons roar, from shore to 
shore. 

The small arms make a rattle ; 
Since wars began I'm sure no man 

E'er saw so strange a battle. 



The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 
With rebel trees surrounded ; 

The distant woods, the hills 
floods. 
With rebel echoes sounded. 



and 



The fish below, swam to and fro, 
Attacked from every quarter; 

Why, sure, thought they, the devil's 
to pay 
'Mongst folks above the water. 



The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly 
made 

Of rebel staves and hoops, sir. 
Could not opi30se their powerful foes. 

The conq'ring British troops, sir. 

From morn to night these men of 
might 

Displayed amazing courage; 
And when the sun was fairly down 

Retired to sup their porridge. 

An hundred men, with each a pen, 
Or more, upon my word, sir. 

It is most true would be too few 
Their valor to record, sir. 

Such feats did they perform that day 
Against these wicked kegs, sir. 

That years to come, if they get home. 
They'll make their boast and brags, 



Walter Savage Landor. 



THE ONE WHITE HAIR. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies 

And love to hear them told; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one, — 
Some in his youth, and more when 

he grew old. 

I never was among 

The choir of Wisdom's song. 

But pretty lies loved I, 
As much as any king. 
When youth was on the wing, 
And (must it then be told '?) when 

youth had quite gone by. 

Alas ! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot 

When one pert lady said 
" O Landor I I am quite 
Bewildered with affright ! 
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on 

your head I " 



Another more benign 
Di'ew out that hair of mine, 
And in her own dark hair 
Pretended it was found. 
That one, and twirled it round ; 
Fair as slie was she never was so fair! 



UNDER THE LINDENS. 

Under the lindens lately sat 
A couple, and no more, in chat; 
I wondereil what they would be at 

Under the lindens. 

I saw four eyes and four lips meet; 
I heard the words, "How sweet! 

how sweet!" 
Had then the fairies given a treat 

Under the lindens ? 

I pondered long, and could not tell 
What dainty pleased them both so 

well : 
Bees! oees! was it your hydromel 

Under the lindens ? 




LELAND. 



Charles Godfrey Leland. 



[From Brcitmann about Town.] 
CI TV EXPERIENCES. 

Dey vented to de Opera Hans, 

Und d(M-e dey vound em blayin'. 
Of Ott'enbach (der o/xh brook), 

His show spiel Belle llelene. 
"Dere's Often bach, — Sebastian Bach ; 

Mit Kanlbacli, — dat makes dree: 
I alvays likes soosh brooks ash dese," 

iSaid Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vented to de Bibliothek, 

Vhich Mishder Astor hilt: 
Some |)ooks vere only en broschnre, 

Und some vere pound unil gilt. 
" Dat makes de gold — dat makes de 
Sinn, 

Mit pooks, ash men, ve see, 
De pest tressed vellers gilt de most: " 

Said Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vent oonto a bictnre sale. 

Of frames wort' many a cent, 
De broberty of a shendleman. 

Who oonto Europe vent. 
"Don't gry — he'll soon pe pack 
again 

Mit anoder gallerie : 
He sells dem oud dwelf dimes a 
year," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vented to dis berson's house. 

To see his furnidure, 
Sold oud at aucdion rite afay, 

Berembdory und sure. 
" He geeps six houses all at vonce, 

Each veek a sale dere pe ; 
Gotts! vat a dime liis vife moost 
hafe!" — 

Said Breitemann, said lie. 

Dey vent to hear a breecher of 

De last sensadion slityle, 
'Twas 'nougli to make der tyfel weep 

To see his " awful slnnile." 



" Yot bities dat der Fechter ne'er 

Vas in Tlieologie. 
Dey'd make him liishop in dis 
shoorsli," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vent polid'gal meedins next, 

Dey hear dem rant and I'ail, 
Der bresident vas a forger, 

Shoost bardoned oud of jail. 
He does it oud of cratitood 

'I'o dem who set him vree: 
" Id's Harmonie of Inderesds," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vent to a clairfoyand vitch, 

A plack-eyed handsome maid, 
She wahrsagt all der vortunes — denn 

*' Fife dollars, gents! " she said. 
" Dese vitches are nod of dis eart', 

Und yed are on id, I see 
Der Shakesbeare knew de preed right 
veil," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 



Dey vented to a restaurand, 

Der vaiter coot a dasli ; 
He garfed a shicken in a vink, 

Und serfed id at a vlash. 
" Dat shap knows veil shoost how to 
coot, 

Und roon mit poulterie, 
He vas copitain oonder Turchin 
vonce," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 

Dey vented to de Voman's Righds, 

Vere laties all agrees 
De gals shoidd pe de voters, 

Und deir beaux all de votees. 
" For efery man dat nefer vorks. 

Von frau should vranchised pe: 
Dat ish de vay I solf dis ding," 

Said Breitemann, said he. 



LEVER. 



745 



. SCHNirZEliUS PHILOSOPEDE. 

Heijk Schnitzekl make a philoso- 
l^ede, 

Von of de pullyest kind ; 
It vent mitout a vheel in front, 

And hadn't none peliind. 
Von vheel vas in de niiltel, dough, 

Anil it vent as sure as ecks, 
For he shtraddled on de axle-dree 

Mit de vheel petween his leeks. 

Und ven he vant to shtart id off. 

He paddlet mit his feet, 
Und soon he cot to go so vast 

Dat avery dings he peat. 
He run her out on Broader Slitreed, 

He shkeeted like der vind; 
Hei ! how he bassed de vancy crabs. 

And lef dem all pehind ! 

De vellers mit de trottin nags 

Pooled oop to see him bass; 
De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt: 

"Potztnuseml ! Was ist das ? " 
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl 
flewed 

On — mit a gashtly smile; 
He tidn't tooch de tirt, py shings! 

Not vonce iu half a mile. 



Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss ? 

Oh, vot ish man's soocksess ? 
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings? 

Und vot isli hobbiness ? 
Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt. 

Next dings der pank is preak; 
Ve foils, und knocks our outsides in, 

Ven ve a ten-shtrike make. 

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein 

On his philosopede ; 
His feet both shlipped outsideward 
shoost 

Vhen at his extra shpeed. 
He felled oopon der vheel, of course; 

De vheel like blitzen flew: 
Und Schnitzerl he vas sclmitz in 
vact, 

For id shlished him grod in two. 

Und as for his philosopede, 

Id cot so shkared, men say, 
It pounded onward till it vent 

Ganz teufelwards afay. 
Bi;t vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's 
soul ? 

Vhere dos his slibirit pide ? 
In Ilimmel troo de entless plue, 

Id dakes a medeor ride. 



Charles Lever. 



WIDOW M ALONE. 

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 

Oh one ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone, 
Alone ! 
O, she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts; 
So lovely the Widow Malone, 
Ohone! 
So lovely the Widow Malone. 

Of lovers she had a full score. 
Or more. 
And fortunes they all had galoi'C, 
In store; 
From the minister down 
To the clerk of the Crown 



All were courting the Widow Malone, 

Ohone! 
All were courting the Widow Malone, 

But so modest was Mistress Malone, 

'Twas known 
That no one could see her alone, 
Ohone! 
Let them ogle and sigh. 
They could ne'er catch her eye, 
So bashful the Widow Malone, 

Ohone! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare 
(How quare! 

It's little for blushing they care 

Down there), 



74G 



LOVER. 



Put his arm round her waist, — 
Gave ten kisses at laste, — 
" O," says he, ''you're my Molly 
Malone ! 

My own ! 
O," says he, "you're my Molly 
Malone!" 

And the widow they all thought so 
shy, 

My eye ! 
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — 
For why ? 
But, "Lucius," says she, 
" Since you've now made so free, 



You may marry your Mary Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You may marry your Mary Malone." 

There's a moral contained in mysong, 

Not wrong; 
And one comfort, it's not very long, 
But strong, — 
If for widows you die, 
Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
For they're all like sweet Mistress 
Malone, 

Ohone! 
For they're all like sweet Mistress 
Malone. 



Samuel Lover. 



THE Rlirni OF ST. PATRICK. 

On the eighth day of March it was, 

some people say. 
That Saint Patrick at midnight he 

first saw the day ; 
While others declare 'twas the ninth 

he was born. 
And ' twas all a mistake between mid- 
night and morn ; 
For mistakes will occur in a hurry 

and shock, 
And some blamed the babby — and 

some blamed the clock — 
'Till with all their cross questions 

sure no one could know 
If the child was too fast — or the 

clock was too slow. 

Now the first faction fight in owld 

Ireland, they say. 
Was all on account of Saint Patrick's 

birthday. 
Some fought for the eighth — for the 

ninth more woidd die. 
And who wouldn't see right, sure 

they blacken' d his eye. 
At last, both the factions so positive 

grew, 
That eitrh kept a birth-day, so Pat 

then had two. 



'Till Father Mulcahy, who showed 
them their sins. 

Said. " No one could have two birth- 
days, but a twins.'" 

Says he, " Boys, don't be fighting for 
eight or for nine. 

Don't be always dividing — but some- 
times combine ; 

Combine eight with nine, and seven- 
teen is the mark, 

So let that be his birth-day" — 
" Amen," says the clerk. 

" If he wasn't a twins, sure our 
hist'ry will show — 

That, at least, he's worth any two 
saints that we know!" 

Then they all got blind drunk — which 
completed their bliss. 

And we keep up the practice from 
that day to this. 



JiOJiy O'MORE. 

Young Rory O'More courted Kath- 
leen Bawn, 

He was bold as a hawk, and she soft 
as the dawn; 



H'3 wished in his heart pretty Katli- 

leen to please, 
And lie thought the best way to do 

tliat was to tease. 
" Now, Kory, be easy," sweet Kath- 
leen would cry, 
Keproof on her lip, but a smile in her 

eye, 
" With your tricks, I don't know, in 

throtli, what I'm about. 
Faith, you've teased till I've put on 

my cloak inside out." 
"Oh! jewel," saysliory, "that same 

is the way 
You've tlu'ated my heart for this 

many a day. 
And it's piazed that I am, and why 

not, to be sure ? 
For it's all for good luck," says bold 

Kory O'More. 

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, 

" don't tliink of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to tioother- 

Iny Mike; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, 

I'll be bound:" 
"Faith!" says Kory, "I'd rather 

love you than the ground." 
" Xow, Kory, I'll cry, if you don't 

let me go: 
Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm 

hating you so!" 
"Oh!" says Kory, "that same I'm 

delighted to hear. 
For dhnunes always go by conthrai- 

rie.s, my dear. 
Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same 

till you die. 
And bright morning will give dirty 

night the black lie ! 
And 'tis piazed that I am, and why 

not, to be sure ? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says 

bold Kory O'More. 

" Arrah. Kathleen, my darlint, you've 

teazed me enough. 
Sure I've thrash' d for your sake Dinny 

Grimes and Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself, drinking your 

health, quite a haste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to 

the prante." 



Then Kory, the rogue, stole his arm 

round her neck. 
So soft and so white, without freckle 

or speck. 
And he looked in her eyes that were 

beaming with light. 
And he kissed her sweet lips — don't 

you think he was right '? 
"Now, Kory, leave off, sir — you'll 

hug me no more. 
That's eight times to-day you have 

kissed me before." 
" Then here goes another," says he, 

" to make sure. 
For there's luck in odd numbers," 

says Kory O'More. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 

Widow marln-ee, it's no wonder you 
frown, 

Och hone! widow machree; 
Faith, it ruins yoiu- looks, that same 
dirty black gown, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 
How altered your air, 
Witli that close cap you wear — 
'Tis destroying your hair 

Which woidd be flowing free: 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl, 

Och hone! widow machree! 

Widow machree, now the summer is 
come, 

Och hone! widow machree; 
When everything smiles, should a 
beauty look glinn ? 

Och hone ! widow machree. 
See the birds go in pairs. 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish. 
Though they can't spake, they wish, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 

Widow machree, and ^\hen winter 

comes in, 
Och hone ! widow machree. 
To be poking the fire all alone is a 

sin, 



Och hone ! widow macliree. 
Sure tlie shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 

Full of family glee; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit you sup, 

Och hone! widow machree. 

And how do you know, with the 
comforts I've towld, 
Och hone ! widow machree, 
But you're keeping some poor fellow 
out in the cowld, 
Och hone I widow machree. 
With such sins on yoiu- head, 
Sure your peace would be tied. 
Could you sleep in your bed, 

Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite. 
That would wake you each night, 
Crying, "Och hone! widow ma- 
chree." 

Then take my advice, darling widow 
machree, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 
And with my advice, faith I wish 
you'd take me, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 
You'd have me to desire 
Then to stir up the fire; 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me. 
That the ghosts M'ould depart, 
When you'd me near your heart, 

Och hone! widow macliree. 



FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER- 
TONG UE. 

Our Father-land! and would' st thou 
know 
Why we should call it Father-land '? 
It is. that Adam here below, 

Was made of earth by Nature's 
hand ; 
And he, our father, made of earth. 

Hath peopled earth on ev'ry hand. 
And we, in memory of his birth. 
Do call our country, " Father- 
. laud." 



At first, in Eden's bowers they say, 
No sound of speech had Adam 
caught. 
But whistled like a bird all day — 
And may be, 'twas for want of 
thought : 
But Nature, with resistless laws, 

Made Adam soon siu'pass the birds. 
She gave him lovely Eve — because 
If he'd a wife — they must have 
luord.s. 

And so, the Native Land I hold. 

By male descent is proudly mine ; 
The Language, as the tale hath told, 

W^as given in the female line. 
And thus, we see, on either hand. 

We name our blessings whence 
they've sprung. 
We call our country Father land, 

We call oiu' language Mother 
iouf/ne. 



FATHER MOLLOY. 

Paddy McCaije was dying one 

day. 
And Father Molloy he came to con- 
fess him; 
Paddy prayed liard he would make 

no delay 
But forgive him his sins and make 

haste for to bless him. 
"First tell me your sins," says 

Father Molloy, 
" For I'll! thinking you've not been 

a very good boy." 
" Oh," says Paddy, " so late in the 

even in' I fear 
"Twould throuble you such a long 

story to hear. 
For you've ten long miles o'er the 

mountain to go, 
While the road I' re to travel's much 

longer, you know: 
So give us your blessin' and get in the 

saddle, 
To tell all my sins my poor brain it 

would addle; 
And the docthor gave ordhers to 

keep me so quiet — 
'Twotdd distuib me to tell all my 

sins, if I'd thry it, 



LOWELL. 



749 



And your reverence has towkl us, un- 
less we tell all, 

'Tis worse than not niakin' confes- 
sion at all : 

So I'll say. in a word, I'm no very 
good boy, 

And, therefore, yotn- blessin', sweet 
Father MoUoy." 

" Well, I'll read from a book," says 
Father Molloy, 
" The manifold sins that human- 
ity's heir to; 

And when you hear those that your 
conscience annoy, 
You'll just squeeze my hand, as 
acknowledging thereto." 

Then the Father began the dark roll 
of iniquity. 

And Paddy, thereat, felt his con- 
science grow rickety, 

And he gave such a squeeze that the 
priest gave a roar — 

" Oh, murdher!" says Paddy, " don't 
read any more. 

For, if you keep readin', by all that 
is thrue. 

Your reverence's fist will be soon 
black and blue ; 

Besides, to be throubled my con- 
science begins, 

That your reverence should have any 
hand in my sins; 

So you'd betther suppose I committed 
them all. 

For whether they're great ones, or 
whether they're small, 

Or if they're a dozen, or if they're 
fourscore, 

'Tis your reverence knows how to ab- 
solve them, asthore: 



So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very 

good boy. 
And, therefore, your blessin", sweet 

Father Molloy." 

" ^Yell,'' says Father Molloy, " if 

your sins 1 forgive, 
So you nnist forgive all your ene- 
mies truly; 
And i)romise me also tliat, if you 

should live, 
You'll leave off your tricks, and 

begin to live newly," 
" I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, 

with a groan, 
" Except that big vagabone, Micky 

Mid one; 
And him 1 will murdher if ever I 

can — " 
" Tut, tut!" says the priest, ''you're 

a very bad man ; 
For without your forgiveness, and 

also repentance. 
You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that 

is my sentence." 
" Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, " that's 

a very hard case, 
With your Eeverenceand Heaven I'm 

content to make pace; 
But with Heaven and your Pveverence 

I wondher — Odi hone, 
You would think of comparin' that 

blackguard Malone — 
But since I'm hard press'd and that 

I Jiti(f<f forgive, 
I forgive — if I die — but as sure as I 

live 
That ugly blackguard I will surely 

desthroy ! — 
So, now, for your blessin', sweet 

Father Molloy ! " 



James Russell Lowell. 

[From the liU/loio Papers.] 
THE COURT IN'. 



God makes sech nights, all white an' 
still 

Fm-'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 



Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
And peeked in thru' the win- 
der, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 



A fireplaL'e, filled the room's one side, 
With half a cord o' wood in — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort 
died) 
To bake ye to a pud din'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

And leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in among "em rusted 
The ole queen' s-arm that granther 
Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'. 

And she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dog-rose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A i, 
Clean grit, an' human natur' ; 

None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 
'em. 

Fust this one, an' thenthet, by spells: 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

Jiut long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple, 

Tht> side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed such a 
swing 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 

She knoioed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in 
prayer, 

When her new meetin'-bunnet 
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 

O' blue eyes sot upon it. 



Thet night, I tell ye, she looked 
aoine I 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She lieered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
A-raspin' on the scraper, — 

All ways to once her feelins flew 
Like sparks in burnt up, paj^er. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 
Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my pa, I s'pose ?" 
" Wal ... no ... I come da- 
signin' " — 
" To see my ma ? She's sprinkliu' 
clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 
Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 

Mebby to mean yes an' say }w 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
Then stood a spell on t'other. 

An' on viiiich one he felt the wust 
He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin;" 
Says she, " Think likely, mister;" 

Thet last word pricked him lik.^ a 
pin. 
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summei 
mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 




LYTTON. 



Tlie blood clost roiui" her heart fell 
glued 

Too tight lor all expressiii', 
Tell mother see how luetters stood, 

And gill "em both her blessiir. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o' Fimdy, 

An' all 1 know is they was cried 
In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



friTfJOUT AS I) ]VITHIX. 

MYCoachmau. in the moonlight there. 
Looks through the side-light of the 
door ; 

1 hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 
He envies me my brilliant lot. 

Breathes on his aching tist in vain. 
And dooms me to a place more hot. 

lie sees me into supper go. 

A silken wonder by my side. 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 



He thinks how happy is my arm 
'Neath its white-gloved and je\\- 
elled load : 

And wishes me some dreadful harm. 
Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old 
coon. 

And envy him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 
As the bright smile he sees me win. 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

1 envy him the ungyved prance 
By which his freezing feet he 
warms, 

And drag my lady's-chains and dance, 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

O, could he have my share of din. 
And I his quiet !t- past a doubt 

'T woidd still be one man bored 
within, 
And just another bored withotit. 



Robert Bulwer Lytton (Owen Meredith). 



[From Lucile.] 
TITK STOMACIT OF MAX. 

O iioriJ of all hours, the most bless'd 

upon earth. 
Blessed hour of our dinners! 

The land of his birth: 
The face of his first love; the bills 

that he owes; 
The twaddle of friends and the venom 

of foes: 
The sermon he heard when to church 

he last went; 
The money he borrow'd, the money 

he spent; — 
All of these things a man, I believe, 

may forget. 
And not be the worse for forgetting; 

but yet 



Never, never, oh, never ! earth's 

luckiest sinner 
Hath impunished forgotten the hour 

of his dinner! 
Indigestion, that conscience of every 

bad stomach. 
Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue 

him with some ache 
Or some pain ; and trouble, remorse- 
less, his best ease. 
As the Furies once troubled tlie sleep 

of Orestes. 
We may live without poetry, music, 

and art; 
We may live without conscience, and 

live without heart; 
We may live without friends; we may 

live without books: 
But civilized man cannot live without 

cooks. 



752 



LYTTON. 



He may live without boolvs, — what is 

knowledge but grieving ? 
He may live without "hope, — what is 

hope but deceiving ? 
He may live without love, what is 

passion but pining ? 
But where is the man that can live 

without dining ? 



[From Lucile.] 
FEW IN MANY. 

The age is gone o'er 
When a man may in all tilings be all. 

We have more 
Painters, poets, musicians, and art- 
ists, no doubt. 
Than the great Cinquecento gave 

birth to; but out 
Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, 

when 
Will a new Leonardo arise on our ken? 
He is gone with the age which begat 

him. Oui" own 
Is too vast, and too complex, for one- 
man alone 
To embody its purpose, and hold it 

shut close 
In the palm of his hand. There 

were giants in those 
Irreclaimable days; but in these days 

of ours. 
In dividing the work we distribute 

the powers. 
Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoul- 
ders sees more 
Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed 

to explore; 
And in life's lengthen' d alphabet 

what used to be 
To our sires X Y Z is to us A I> C. 
A Vanini is roasted alive for his 

pains. 
But a Bacon conies after and picks 

np his brains. 
A Bruno is angrily seized by the 

throttle 
And hunted about by thy ghost, 

Aristotle, 
Till a More or I^avater step into his 

place : 
Then the world turns and makes an 

admiring grimace. 



Once the men were so great and so 

few, they appear, 
Through a distant Olympian atmos- 

IDhere, 
Like vast Caryatids upholding the 

age. 
Now the men are so many and small, 

disengage 
One man from the million to mark 

him, next moment 
The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out 

of your comment; 
And since we seek vainly (to praise 

in our songs) 
'jVIid our fellows the size which to 

heroes belongs. 
We take the whole age for a hero, in 

want 
Of a better; and still, in its favor, 

descant 
On the strength and the beauty which, 

failing to find 
In any one man, we ascribe to man- 
kind. 



\_From Lucile.] 
THE E nil ATI C GENIUS. 

With irresolute finger he knock'd at 

each one 
Of the doorways of life, and abided 

in none. 
His course, by each star that would 

cross it, was set. 
And whatever he did he was sure to 

regret, 
That target, discuss' d by the travel- 
lers of old. 
Which to one appear'd argent, to one 

appear' d gold, 
To him, ever lingering on Doubt's 

dizzy margent, 
Appeared in one moment both golden 

and argent. 
The man who seeks one thing in life, 

and but one. 
May hope to achieve it before life be 

done; 
But he who seeks all things, wherever 

he goes, 
Only reaps from the hopes which 

around him he sows 



A liarvest of barren regrets. And 

the worm 
That crawls on in the dust to the 

definite term 
Of its creeping existence, and sees 

nothing more 
Tiian tlie patli it pursues till its 

creeping be o'ei-, 
In its limited vision, is happier far 
Than the Half-Sage, wliose course, 

fix'd no friendly star 
Is by eacli star distracted in turn, and 

who knows 
Each will still be as distant wherever 

he goes. 




[From Lucile.] 
A CHAIiACTER. 

The banker, well known 

As wearing the longest philacteried 
gow'n 

Of all the rich Pliarisees England can 
boast of; 

A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp 
wits made the most of 

This world and the next; having 
largely invested 

Not only where treasure is never mo- 
lested 

By thieves, moth, or rust; Init on this 
earthly ball 

Where interest was high, and security 
small. 

Of mankind there was never a theory 
yet 

Not by some individual instance up- 
set: 

And so to that sorrowful verse of the 
Psalm 

Which declares that the wicked ex- 
pand like the palm 

In a world where the righteous are 
stunted and pent, 

A cheering exception did IJidley pre- 
.sent. 

Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven pros- 
pered his piety. 

The leader of every religious society. 

Christian knowledge he labored 
through life to promote 

With personal profit, and knew how 
to quote 



Both the Stocks and the Scripture, 

with equal advantage 
To himself and admiring friends, in 

this ('ant-Aa;e. 



[From Lucile.] 
FAME. 

The poets pour wine; and, when 'tis 
new, all decry it; 

But, once let it be old, evei-y trifler 
must ti'y it. 

And Polonius, who praises no wine 
that's not Massic, 

Complains of my verse, that my verse 
is not classic. 

And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and 
not badly. 

My earlier verses, sighs *' Common- 
place sadly!" 

As for you, O Poionius, you vex me 

but slightly; 
But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam 

so brightly 
In despite of their languishing looks, 

on my word, 
That to see you look cross I can 

scai'cely afford. 
Yes! the silliest woman that smiles 

on a bard 
Better far than Longinus himself can 

reward 
The appeal to her feelings of which 

she approves; 
And the critics I most care to please 

are the Loves. 

Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone 

at his head 
And a bi-ass on his breast, — wlien a 

man is once dead ? 
Ay ! were fame the sole guerdon, poor 

guerdon were then 
Theirs who, strip])ing life bare, stand 

forth models for men. 
The reformer's? — a creed by poster- 
ity learnt 
A century after its author is burnt! 
The poet's ? — a laurel that hides the 

bald brow 
It hath blighted! The painters? — 

ask Kaphael now 




MACK AY. 



Which Madonna's authentic I Tlie 
statesman's — a name 

For i^arties to blacken, or boys to de- 
claim! 

The soldier's? — three lines on the 
colli Abbey pavement! 

Were this all the life of the wise and 
the brave meant, 

All it ends in, thrice better, Netera, 
it were 

I'nregarded to sport with thine odor- 
ous hair, [shade 

Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the 

And be loved, Avhile the roses yet 
bloom overhead. 

Than to sit by the lone hearth, and 
think the long thought, 

A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, en- 
vied for naught 

Save the name of John Milton! For 
all men, indeed. 

Who in some choice edition may 
graciously read, jnote. 

With fair illustration, and erudite 

The song which the poet in bitter- 
ness wrote. 

Beat the poet, and notably beat him, 
in this — 

The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst 
they miss 

The grief of the man : Tasso's song — 
not his madness ! 



Dante's dreams — not his waking to 

exile and sadness! 
Milton's nmsic — but not Milton's 

blindness! . . . 

Yet rise. 
My Milton, and answer, with those 

noble eyes 
Which the glory of heaven hath 

blinded to earth! 
Say — the life, in the living it, savors 

of worth; 
That the deed, in the doing it, reaches 

its aim: 
That the fact has a value ajmrt from 

the fame : 
That a deeper delight, in the mere 

labor, pays 
Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious 

days : 
And Shakespeare, though all Shake- 
speare's writings were lost, 
And his genius, though never a trace 

of it crossed 
Posterity's path, not the less would 

have dwelt 
In the isle with Miranda, with Handet 

have felt 
x\ll that Hamlet hath littered, and 

haply where, pure 
On its death-bed, wronged Love lay, 

have moaned with the Moor! 



Charles Mackay. 



TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS. 

Afraid of critics! an unworthy 
fear: 

Great minds must learn their great- 
ness and be bold. 

Walk on thy way; bring forth thine 
own true thought; 

Love thy high calling only for itself, 

And find in working, recompense for 
work. 

And Envy's shaft shall whiz at thee 
in vain. I just; 

Despise not censure ; — weigh if it be 

And if it be — amend, whate'er the 
thought 



Of him who cast it. Take the wise 
man's praise, 

And love thyself the more that thou 
couldst earn 

Meed so exalted; but the blame of 
fools, 

Let it blow over like an idle whiff 

Of poisonous tobacco in the streets. 

Invasive of thy unotfending nose: — 

Their praise no better, only more per- 
fumed. 

The critics — let me paint them as 
they are. 
Some few I know, and love them from 
my sold ; 



MACK AY. 



755 



Polished, acute, deep read ; of inborn 

taste 
(Adtiired into a virtue ; full of pith 
And kindly vigor, having won their 

spurs 
In the great rivalry of friendly mind, 
And generous to others, though un- 
known, 
Who would, having a thought, let all 

men know 
The new discovery. But these are 

rare; 
And if thou find one, take him to 

thy heart, 
And think his unbought praise both 

palm and crown, 
A thing worth living for, were nought 

beside. 
Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true 

thyself; — 
And look for fame noiv if the Avise 

approve. 
Or from a wiser jury yet unborn. 
The poetaster may be harmed enough. 
But criticasters cannot crush a bard. 

If to be famous be thy sole intent, 
And greatness be a mark beyond thy 

reach. 
Manage the critics, and thou 'It win 

the game; 
Invite them to thy board, and give 

them feasts, 
And foster them with luu'elaxing 

care ; 
And they will praise thee in their 

partial sheets, 
And quite ignore the worth of better 

men. 
But if thou wilt not court them, let 

them go. 
And scorn the praise that sells itself 

for wine. 
Or tacks itself upon success alone. 
Hanging like spittle on a rich man's 

beard. 

One, if thou'rt great, will cite from 

thy new book 
The tamest passage, — something that 

thy soul 
Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er. 
And would give all thou hast to blot 

from print 



And sink into oblivion; — and will 
vaunt 

The thing as beautiful, transcendent, 
rare — 

The best thing thou hast done! An- 
other friend. 

With finer sense, Avill praise thy 
greatest thought, 

Yetcavil at it; putting in his "6h<.s" 

And " yetf<,'^ and little obvious hints, 

That though 'tis good, the critic could 
have made 

A work superior in its every part. 

Another, in a pert and savage mood. 
Without a reason, will condenni thee 

quite, 
And strive to quench thee in a para- 
graph. 
Another, with dishonest waggery, 
Will twist, misquote, and utterly per- 
vert 
Thy thoughts and words; and hug 

himself meanwhile 
In the delusion, pleasant to his soul. 
That thou art crushed, and he a gen- 
tleman. 

Another, with a specious fair pre- 
tence. 

Immaculately wise, will skim thy 
book, 

And, self-sufficient, from his desk 
look down 

With undisguised contempt on thee 
and thine; 

And sneer and snarl thee, from his 
weekly court. 

From an idea, spawn of his conceit. 

That the best means to gain a great 
renown 

For wisdom is to sneer at all the 
world. 

With strong denial that a good ex- 
ists ; — 

That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, 
stale. 

Except this critic, who outshines 
mankind. 

Another, with a foolish zeal, will 
prate 
Of thy great excellence, and on thy 
head 



756 



MAC KAY. 



Heap epithet on epithet of praise 

In terms preposterous, that thou wilt 
blusli 

To be so smothered with such ful- 
some lies. 

Another, calmer, with laudations 
thin. 

Unsavory and weak, will make it 
seem 

That his good-nature, not thy merit, 
prompts 

The baseless adidation of his pen. 

Another, with a bulldog's bark, will 
bay 

Foul names against thee for some 
fancied slight 

Which thou ne'er dream' dst of, and 
will damn thy work 

For spite against the worker; while 
the next. 

Who thinks thy faith or politics a 
crime. 

Will bray displeasure from his month- 
ly stall. 

And prove thee dunce, that disagre'st 
with him. 

And, last of all, some solemn sage, 

whose nod 
'I'riraestral awes a world of little 

wits. 
Will carefully avoid to name thy 

name. 
Although thy words are in the mouths 

of men. 
And thy ideas in their inmost hearts, 
Moulding events, and fashioning thy 

time 
To nobler efforts. Little matters 

it! 
Whate'er thou art, thy value will ap- 
pear. 
If thou art bad, no praise will buoy 

thee up; 
If thou art good, no censure weigh 

thee down, 
Nor silence nor neglect prevent thy 

fame. 
So fear not thou the critics! Speak 

thy thought; 
And, if thou'ri worthy, in the peo- 
ple's love 
Thy name shall live, while lasts thy 

mother tonerue ! 



AT A CLUB-DINNER. 
THE OLD FOGIES. 

We merry three 

Old fogies be; 
The crow's-foot crawls, the wrinkle 
comes. 

Our heads grow bare 

Of the bonnie brown hair. 
Our teeth grow shaky in our gums. 
Gone are the joys that once we knev/, 
Over the green, and under the blue. 
Our blood runs calm, as calm can be, 
And we're old fogies — fogies three. 

Yet if we be 

Old fogies three 
The life still pulses in our veins; 

And if the heart 

Be didled in part. 
There's sober wisdom in oui- brains. 
We may have heard that Hope's a 

knave. 
And Fame a breath beyond the grave. 
But what of that — if wiser grown. 
We make the passing day our own. 
And find true joy where joy can be. 
And live our lives, though fogies 
three ? 

Ay — though we be 

Old fogies three. 
We're not so dulled as not to dine; 

And not so old 

As to be cold 
To wit, to beauty, and to wine. 
Our hope is less, our memory more; 
Our sunshine brilliant as of yore. 
At four o'clock, 'twixt noon and 

night, 
'Tis warm as morning, and as bright. 
And every age bears blessings free. 
Though we're old fogies — fogies 

three. 

THE JOLl.V COMPANIONS. 

Jolly companions! three times three I 
Let us confess what fools we be ! 
We eat more dinner than hunger 

craves. 
We di'ink our passage to early graves. 
And fill, and swill, till our foreheads 

burst, 
P''or sake of the wine, and not of th£: 

thirst. 



MAG KAY. 



757 



Jolly companions! three times three, 


And wished I Tnight 


Let us confess what fools we be ! 


Take sudden flight 




And dine alone, 


We toil and moil from morn to night, 


Unseen, unknown. 


Slaves and drudges in health's despite, 


On a mutton chop and a hot potato, 


Gathering and scraping painful gold 


Reading my Homer, or my Plato. 


To hold and garner till we're old; 




And die, mayhap, in middle prime, 


It conies to this. 


Loveless, joyless, all our time. 


The truest bliss 


Jolly companions! three times three, 


For great or small 


Let us confess what fools we be! 


Is free to all ; 




Like the fresh air. 


Or else we leave our warm fireside, 


Like flowerets fair, 


Friends and comrades, bairns and 


Like night or day. 


bride. 


Like work or play; 


To mingle in the world's affairs. 


And books that charm or make us 


And vex our souls with public cares; 


wiser, 


And have our motives misconstrued, 


Are better comrades than a Kaiser. 


Reviled, maligned, misunderstood. 




Jolly companions! three times three, 




Let us confess what fools we be ! 






THE GREAT CRITICS. 




Whom shall we praise ? 


HAPPIXESS. 


Let's praise the dead! 




In no men's ways 


I'a'^e drunk good wine 


Their heads they raise. 


From Rhone and Rhine, 


Nor strive for bread 


And filled the glass 


With you or me, — 


To friend or lass 


So, do you see ? 


Mid jest and song. 


We'll praise the dead! 


The gay night long. 


Let living men 


And found the bowl 


Dare but to claim 


Inspired the soul. 


From tongue or pen 


With neither Avit nor wisdom richer 


Their meed of fame. 


Tlian comes from water in the pitcher. 


We'll cry them down, 




Spoil their renown. 


I've ridden far 


Deny their sense. 


In coach and car, 


Wit, eloquence. 


Sped four-in-hand 


Poetic tire, 


Across the land ; 


All they desire. 


On gallant steed 


Our say is said, 


Have measured speed, 


Long live the dead ! 


With the summer wind 




That la'^^^ed behind* 




Hut found more joy for days to- 




gether 


BE QUIET, do: —I'LL CALL MY 


• n tramping o'er the mountain 


MOTHER. 


heather. 






As I was sitting in a wood. 


I've dined, long since, 


Under an oak-tree's leafy cover. 


With king and prince, 


Musing in pleasant solitude, 


In soleuui state. 


Who should come by but John, my 


Stiff and sedate; 


lover! 



75S 



MACK AY. 



He pressed my hand and kissed my 


"But that," quoth he, and twirled 


cheek; 


his thumb. 


Then, warmer growing, kissed tlie 


So blithe he was, and free, 


otlier, 


" Is quite enough for happiness 


Wliile I exclaimed, and strove to 


For a little man like me." 


shriek, 




"jBe quiet, dol — Fll call my 


And oft this little, very little, 


mother '.''^ 


Happy little man. 




Would talk a little to himself 


He saw my anger was sincere, 


About the great world's plan: 


And lovingly began to chide me; 


'• Though people think me V(m\ 


Then wiping from my cheek the 


poor. 


tear, 


I feel I'm very glad. 


He sat him on the grass beside 


And this I'm sure could scarcely be 


me, 


If I were very bad. 


He feigned such pretty amorous 


Rich knaves who cannot rest o' 


woe, 


nights. 


Breathed such sweet vows one after 


At every turn I see. 


other. 


While cosy sleep unbidden comes 


I could but smile, while whispering 


To a quiet man like me. 


low, 




"2)e quiet, do! — I'' 11 call my 


" For though I'm little, very little, 


inoilter .'^' 


Do whate'er I can, 




Yet every morning when I shave. 


He talked so long, and talked so 


I shave an honest man ; 


well. 


And eveiy night when I go home, 


And swore he meant not to deceive 


My winsome little wife. 


me; 


Receives me smiling at the door. 


I felt more grief than I can tell. 


And loves me more than life: — 


When with a sigh he rose to leave 


And this is joy that kings them- 


me. 


selves. 


" John ! "' said I; " and must thou 


If thoughts were spoken free. 


go? 


Might give their sceptres to ex- 


I love thee better than all other; 


change 


There is no need to hurry so, — 


With a little man like me. 


I never meant to cull my mother.'" 






" And I've a little, quite a little. 




Bonnie little child. 




A little maid with golden hair. 


THE LITTLE MAN. 


And blue eyes bnght and mild ; 




She sits and prattles on my knee, 


There was a little, very little, 


She's merry as a song, 


Quiet little man. 


She's pleasant as a ray of light, 


He wore a little overcoat 


She keeps my heart from wrong. 


The color of the tan ; 


And so, let kingdoms rise or fall, 


And when his weekly Avage was earned 


I'll earn my daily fee. 


On Saturday, at night. 


And think the world is good 


He had but half-a-crown to spare 


enough 


To keep his spirits light; 


For a little man like me." 



MERRICK. 



759 



James Merrick. 



THE CHAMELEON. 

Two travellers of conceited cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, 
And, on their way, in friendly chat. 
Now talked of this, and then of that. 
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other 

matter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 

" A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun; 
A lizard's body, lean and long; 
A fish's head; a serpent's tongue; 
Its foot with triple claw disjoined; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue ? " 

"Hold tliere," the other quick re- 
plies ; 

'"Tis green — I saw it with these 
eyes, 

As late with open mouth it lay, 

And warmed it in the sunny ray ; 

Stretched at its ease, the beast I 
viewed, 

And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue; 
At leisure I the beast surveyed 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir. I assure 

ye." 
"Green!" cries tlie other, in a fury: 
" Why, sir. d'ye think I've lost my 

eyes ? " 
"'Twere no great loss," the friend 

replies ; 
" For if tliey always serve you thus, 
You'll find them but of little use," 

So high at last the contest rose, 
P^rom words they almost came to 
blows ; 



When luckily came by a third — 
To him the question they referred ; 
And begged he'd tell them, if lie 

knew, 
Whether the thing was green, or 

blue ? 

"Sirs," cried the umpire, "cease 

your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor 

t'otlier; 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candle-light; 
I marked it well — 'twas black as jet; 
You stare! but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, 

do; 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 

" And I'll engage that, when you've 

seen 
The reptile, you'll pronounce him 

green." 
"Well, then, at once, to ease the 

doubt," 
Eeplies the man, " I'll turn hlni out; 
And, when before your eyes I've set 

him, 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat 

him." 
He said; tlien full before tlieir sight 
Produced the beast, and lo — 'twas 

white ! 

Botli stared ; the man looks wondrous 

wise ! 
" My cliildren," the chameleon cries 
(Then first the creature found a 

tongue), 
" You all are right, and all are 

wrong; 
When next you talk of wliat yoii 

view, 
Think others see as well as you ; 
Nor wonder if you find that none 
Prefers yom- eyesight to his owr..'' 



7t)0 



MOORE. 



Thomas Moore. 



[From an Epistle to Samuel liogers.] 
THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM. 

I'.VLiKE those feeble gales of praise 
W'liich critics blew in former days, 
Our modern puffs are of a kind 
That truly, really " raise the wind ; "' 
And since they've fairly set in blow- 
ing. 
We find them the best trade-winds 

going. 
What storm is on the deep — and 

more 
Is the great power of Puff on shore, 
Which jumps to glory's future tenses 
Before the present even commences, 
And makes " immortal " and "di- 
vine" of us. 
Before the workl has read one Ime of 

us. 
In old times when the god of song 
Drew his own two-horse team along, 
Carrying inside a bard or two 
Booked for posterity " all through," 
Their luggage, a few close-packed 

rhymes 
(Like yours, my friend, for after- 
times) 
So slow the pull to Fame's abode 
That folks oft slumbered on the road ; 
And Homer's self sometimes, they 

say. 
Took to his nightcap on the way. 
But now, how different is the story 
With our new galloping sons of glory. 
Who, scorning all such slack and 

slow time. 
Dash to posterity in no time! 
Raise but one general blast of puff 
To start your author — that's enough: 
In vain the critics sit to watch him 
Try at the starting-post to catch him ; 
He's off — the putters carry it hol- 
low — 
The critics, if they please, may fol- 
low; 
Ere they've laid down their first po- 
sitions, 



He's fairly blown through six edi- 
tions! 
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense 
Her blue-and-yellow pestilence 
( That plague so awful in my time 
To young and touchy sons of rhyme) ; 
The Quarterly, at three months' 

date. 
To catch the Unread One comes too 

late; 
And nonsense, littered in a hurry, 
Becomes " im.mortal " spite of Mur- 
ray. 



[From The Fiuhjc Familij in Paris]. 

EXTRACTS FROM MISS BIDDrS 
LETTERS. 

AViiAT a time since I wrote! — I'm a 
sad naughty girl — 

Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in 
a twirl, 

Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee- 
totum 

Between all its twirls gives a letter 
to note 'em. 

But, Lord, such a place! and then, 
Dolly, my dresses, 

My gowns, so divine! — there's no 
language expresses, • 

Except just, the two words " su- 
perbe," "magnifique," 

The trimmings of that which I had 
home last week! 

It is called — I forget — a la — some- 
thing which sounded 

IJke ulicampane — but, in truth, I'm 
confounded 

And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that 
troublesome boy's 

(Bob's) cookery language, and Ma- 
dame Le Koi's: 

What Avith fillets of roses, and fillets 
of veal. 

Things garni with lace, and things 
rjarni with eel, 



MOORE. 



761 



One's hair and one's cutlets both en 

papillote. 
And a thousand more things 1 sluill 

ne'er have by rote, 
1 can scarce tell the difference, at 

least as to phrase, 
Between beef a la Psi/clie and curls 

o la braise, — 
But, in short, dear, I'm tricked out 

quite a la fran(;aise, 
With my bonnet— so beautiful!— high 

up and poking, 
Like things that are put to keep 
chiinneys from smoking. 

Where slialll begin with the endless 

delights 
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, 

and sights — 
This dear busy place, where there's 

nothing transacting. 
But dresshig and dinnering, dancing 

and acting '? 

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place 

where — I doubt 
If 1 Avell can describe — there are 

cars, that set out 
From a lighted pavilion, high up in 

the air, 
And rattle you down, Doll — you 

hardly know where. 
These vehicles, mind me, in which 

you go through 
This delightfidly dangerous journey, 

hold tico, 
borne cavalier asks, with humility, 

whether 
You'll venture down with him — 

you smile — 'tis a match; 
In an instant you're seated, and down 

both together 
Go thmidering, as if you went post 

to old Scratch! 
Well, it was but last night, as I stood 

and remarked 
(_)u the looks and odd ways of the 

girls who embarked. 
The impatience of some for the peril- 
ous flight. 
The forced giggle of others, 'twixt 

pleasure and fright. 
That there came up — imagine, dear 

Doll, if you can — 



A fine, sallow, sublime, sort of Wer- 
ter-faced man. 

With nmstachios that gave (what we 
we read of so oft) 

The dear Corsair expression, half sav- 
age, half soft, 

As hyienas in love may be fancied to 
look, or 

A something between Abelard and 
old Bhicher! 

Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncov- 
ering his head, 

(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad 
English said, 

"Ah! my dear — if Ma'mselle vill be 
so vei-y good — 

Just for von'liUle course " — though 
I scarce understood 

What he wished me to do, I said, 
thank him, I would. 

Off we set — and, tliough 'faith, dear, 
I hardly knew wliether 
My head or my heels were the up- 
permost then, 

For 'twas like heaven and earth, 
Dolly, coming together,— 
Yet, spite of thedanger, Ave dared 
it again. 

And oh ! as I gazed on the features 
and air 
Of the man who for me all tliis 
peril defied, 

1 could fancy almost he and I m ere a 
pair 
Of unhappy young lovers,who thus, 
side by side. 

Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, 
or dagger, a 

Desperate dash down the falls of Ni- 
agara ! 



Well, it isiiH the king, after all, my 

dear creature! 
But don't you go laugh, now— 

there's nothing to quiz in't— 
For grandeur of air and for grimness 

of feature, 
He might be a king, Doll, though, 

hang him, he isn't. 
At first I felt hurt, for I wished it, I 

own, 
If for no other cause than to vex Miss 

Malone, — 



rALMER. 



(The great heiress, you know, of 
Shandangan, who's here. 

Showing off with such airs and a real 
Casliniere, 

While mine's but a paltry old rabbit- 
skin, dear!) 

But says Pa, after deeply considering 
the thing, 

"I am just as well pleased it should 
not be the king; 



As I think for my Biddy so gentille 
and jolie, 
Whose charms may their price in 
an honest way fetch. 
That a 13randenburg — (what is a 
Brandenburg, Uolly ?) — 
Would be, after all, no such very 
great catch. 



William Pitt Palmer. 



THE SMACK IX SCHOOL. 

A DISTRICT school, uot far away, 
Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's 

day. 
Was hunnningwith its wonted noise 
Of threescore mingled girls and boys; 
Some few upon their tasks intent. 
But more on furtive mischief bent. 
The while the master's downward 

look 
Was fastened on a copy-book ; 
When suddenly, behind his back, 
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
As 't were a battery of bliss 
Let off in one tremendous kiss! 
" What's that ?" the startled master 

cries; 
" That, thir," a little imp replies, 
'• Wath William Willith, if you 

pleathe, — 
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " 
With frown to make a statue thrill. 
The master thundered, "Hither, 

Will!" 
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, 



With stolen chattels on his back. 
Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
And to the awful presence came, — 
A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
The butt of all good-natured fun. 
With smile suppressed, and birch 

vipraised. 
The thunderer faltered, — "I'm 

amazed 
That you, my biggest pupil, should 
Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
Before the whole set school to boot — 
What evil genius put you to 't '? " 
"'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the 

lad; 
" I did not mean to be so bad; 
But when Susannah shook her curls. 
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls 
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 
But up and kissed her on the spot! 
I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 
But, somehow, from her looks — 

boo-hoo — 
I thought she kii-d o' wished me to ! " 



Thomas William Parsons. 



SA/XT PEHA y. 
ADDRESSED TO II. T. P. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peniy. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic faint and sick, 
Once I prayed to Saint Dominick: 
He ^yas holy, sure, and wise ; — 
Was't not he that did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries '? — 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But, how I was swindled there 

At the "Golden Fleece," — he 
knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and vari- 
ous, 
Reaching Naples — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 
I besoughtSaint Januarius. 
But I was a fool to try him ; 
Naught I said could liquefy him; 
And I swear he did me wrong, 
Keeping me shut up so long 
In that pest-house, with obscene 
Jews and Greeks and things un- 
clean — 
What need had I of quarantine? 

In Sicily at least a score — 
In Spain about as many more — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As tlie loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe ! — said I, 



Worn with travel, tired and lame. 

To Assisi's walls I came: 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis : 

But the Ijeggar never did 

Any thing as he was bid. 

Never gave me aught — but fleas — 

Plenty liad I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 
Hard by the Rhone, 1 found a 
saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice. 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon tliat first — 
In the witching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome St. Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips, 
AH saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine. 
That methought such bliss as I did. 

Poet never di-ew from wine. 

Rest he gave me, and refection. 
Chastened hopes, calm retrospec- 
tion, 
Softened images of sorrow, 
Bright forebodings for the morrow. 
Charity for what is past. 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanac 
The name of this good creature lack '? 
Or wherefore should the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 
The pope himself should grant a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 
But since no day hath been appointed 
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed. 
Let us not wait — we'll do him riglit; 
Send round your bottles, Hal, — and 
set your night. 



John Pierpont. 



WHITTLING. 

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to 

school, 
Well knows the mysteries of that 

magic tool, 
Tlie pocket-knife. To that his wist- 

fnl eye 
Tnrns, while he hears his mother's 

lullaby; 
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to 

get it, 
Then leaves no stone unturned till he 

can whet it; 
And in the education of the lad 
No little part tliat implement hath 

liad. 
His pocket-knife to the young whit- 

tler brings 
A growing knowledge of material 

things. 

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's 

art. 
His cliestnut whistle and his shingle 

cart, 
His elder pop-gun with its hickory 

rod, 
Its sharp explosion and rebounding 

wad. 
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper 

tone 
That murniuis from his pumpkin- 
stalk troHd)one, 
Conspire to teach the boy. To these 

succeed 
His bow, his arrow of a featliered 

reed, 
His windmill, raised the passing 

breeze to win. 
His water-wheel, that turns upon a 

pin. 
Or, if his father lives upon the sliore, 
You'll see his ship, " beam ends upon 

the floor," 



Full rigged, with raking masts, and 
timbers staunch, 

And waiting, near the wasli-tub, for 
a launch. 

Thus, by his genius and his jack- 
knife driven 

Ere long he'll solve you any problem 
given; 

Make any gimcrack, musical or 
mute, 

A plough, a couch, an organ, or a 
flute ; 

Make you a locomotive or a clock, 

Cut a canal, or build a floating- 
dock, 

Or lead forth beauty from a marble 
block; — 

Make anything, in short, for sea or 
sliore. 

From a child's rattle to a seventy- 
four ; — 

Make it, said I? — Ay, when he un- 
dertakes it, 

He'll make the thing and tlie ma- 
chine tliat makes it. 

And when the tiling is made, — 

whether it be 
To move on earth, in air. or on the 

sea; 
Whether on water, o'er the waves to 

glide. 
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or 

slide; 
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or 

ring. 
Whether it be a piston or a spring. 
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood 

or brass. 
The thing designed shall surely come 

to pass ; 
For, when his hand's upon it, you 

may know 
That there's go in it, and he'll make 

it go. 



POPE. 



765 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



{From the Dunciad.] 
DULLNESS. 

In eldest time, ere mortals writ or 

Ere Pallas 'issued from the Thvmder- 

er's head, 
Dullness o'er all possessed her ancient 

right. 
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night : 
Fate in their dotage this fair idiot 

gave, 
Gross as her sire, and as her mother 

grave, 
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold and 

blind. 
She ruled, in native anarchy, the 

mind. 
Still her old empire to restore she 

tries. 
For, born a goddess, Dullness never 

dies. 

How hints, like spawn, scarce quick 
in embryo lie. 

How new-born nonsense first is 
taught to cry ; 

Maggots half-formed in rhyme exact- 
ly meet. 

And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. 

Here one poor word an hundred 
clenches makes, 

And ductile Dullness new meanders 
takes ; 

There motlev images her fancy strike, 

Figures ill-pah-ed, and similes unlike. 

She sees a mob of metaphors ad- 
vance. 

Pleased with the madness of the mazy 
dance: 

How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; 

How Farce and Epic get a jumbled 
race ; 

How Time itself stands still at her 
command. 

Realms shift their place, and ocean 
turns to land. 

Here gay description Egypt glads 
with showers, 



Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca 

flowers; 
Glittering with ice here hoary hills 

are seen. 
There painted valleys of eternal 

green, 
In cold December fragrant chaplets 

blow. 
And heavy harvests nod beneath the 

snow. 
All these, and more, the cloud- 
compelling queen 
Beholds through fogs, that magnify 

the scene : 
She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying 

hues. 
With self-applause her wild creation 

views; 
Sees momentary monsters rise and 

fall. 
And with her own fool's-colors gilds 

them all. 



[From The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Th< 
Prologue to the Satires.] 

AN AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT. 

Shut, shut the door, good John! 

fatigued, I said, 
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm 

dead. 
The Dog-star rages: nay, 'tis past a 

doubt. 
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each 

hand, 
They rave, recite, and madden round 

the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what 

shades can hide ? 
They pierce my thickets, through my 

grot they glide, 
By land, by water, they renew the 

charge, 
They stop the chariot, and they board 

the bai'ge; 



766 



POPE. 



No place is sacred, not the church is 

free. 
Even Sunday sliines no Sabbatli-day 

to me : 
Tlien from the Mint walks forth the 

man of rhyme, 
Happy to catch me, just at dinner- 
time. 
Is there a parson much be-mused 

in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul 

to cross, 
Who pens a stanza, when he should 

engross ? 
Is there, who, locked from ink and 

paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his 

darkened walls ? 
All fly to T wick' nam, and in humble 

strain 
Apply to me, to keep them mad or 

vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the 

laws, 
Imputes to me and to my works the 

cause : 
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife 

elope. 
And curses wit, and poetry, and 

Pope. 
Friend to my life! (which did 

not you prolong. 
The world had wanted many an idle 

song) 
AVhat drop or nostrum can this plague 

remove ? 
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath 

or love ? 
A dire dilemma! either way I'm 

sped. 
If foes, they write, — if friends, they 

read me dead. 
Seized and tied down to judge, how 

wretched I! 
Who can't be silent, and who will not 

lie: 
To laugh, were want of goodness and 

of grace. 
And to be grave, exceeds all power 

of face. 
I sit with sad civility, I read 
With honest anguish and an aching 

head ; 



And drop at last,but in unwilling ears. 
This saving counsel, "' Keep your 

l)iece nine years." 
Nine years! cries he, who high in 

Drury Lane, 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the 

broken pane. 
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints be- 
fore Term ends. 
Obliged by hunger, and request of 

friends : • 

" The piece, you think, is incorrect ? 

Why, take it, 
I'm all submission, what you'd have 

it, make it." 
Three things another's modest 

wishes bound. 
My friendship, and a prologue, and 

ten pound. 
Pitholeon sends to me: "Youknow 

his Grace, 
I want a patron ; ask him for a 

place." 
Pitholeon libelled me — "but here's 

a letter 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew 

no better. 
Dare you refuse him ? Curl invites 

to dine. 
He'll Avrite a journal, or he'll turn 

divine." 
Bless me! a packet. — "'Tis a 

stranger sues, 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 
If I dislike it, " Furies, death, and 

rage!" 
If I approve, " Commend It to the 

stage." 
There (tliank my stars) my whole 

commission ends, 
The players and I are, luckily, no 

friends. 
Fired that the house reject him, 

" 'Sdeath, I'll print it. 
And shame the fools — Your inter- 
est, sir, with Lintot." 
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your 

price too much : 
"Not, sir, if you revise it, and re- 
touch." 
All my demurs but double his at- 
tacks ; 
At last he whispers, " Do; and we go 

snacks." 



POPE. 



767 



Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the 

door, 
Sir, let me see your works and you no 

more. 
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began 

to spring. 
(Midas, a sacred person and a king,) 
His very minister who spied them 

first 
(Some say his queen) was forced to 

speak or burst. 
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer 

case, 
When every coxcomb perks them in 

my face ? 

You think this cruel ? take it for a 
rule. 

No creature smarts so little as a fool. 

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round 
thee break. 

Thou unconcerned canst hear the 
mighty crack : 

Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions 
hurled. 

Thou standest unshook am-id a burst- 
ing world. 

Who shames a scribbler ? break one 
cobweb through. 

He spins the slight, self-pleasing 
thread anew: 

Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain. 

The creature's at his dirty work 
again. 

Throned in the centre of his thin de- 
signs. 

Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! 

Of all mad creatures, if the learned 

are right. 
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. 
A fool quite angry is quite innocent, 
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they 

repent. 
One dedicates in high heroic prose. 
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 
One from all Grub Street will my 

fame defend. 
And, more abusive, calls himself my 

friend. 
This prints my letters, that expects a 

bribe, 
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, 

subscribe." 



There are, who to my person pay 

their court: 
I cough like Horace, and, though 

lean, am short. 
Ammon's great son one shoulder had 

too high, 
Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you 

have an eye." — 
Go on, obliging creatures, make me 

see, 
All that disgraced my betters, met in 

me. 
Say for my comfort, languishing in 

bed, 
"Just so immortal Maro held his 

head:" 
And when I die, be sure you let me 

know 
Great Homer died three thousand 

years ago. 
Why did 1 write ? what sin to me 

imknown 
Dipped me in ink, my parents', or 

my own V 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers 

came. 
I left no calling for this idle trade, 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed. 
The muse but served to ease some 

friend, not wife. 
To help me through this long dis- 
ease, my life : 
To second, Aiibutiixot! thy art and 

care. 
And teach the being you preserved to 

bear. 



[From the Hope of the Lock.] 
BELINDA. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet 
stands displayed, 

Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 

First, robed in white the nymph in- 
tent adores. 

With head uncovered, the cosmetic 
powers. 

A. heavenly image in the glass ap- 
pears. 

To that she bends, to that her eyes 
she rears ; 



768 



POPE. 



The inferior priestess, at her altar's 
side. 

Trembling begins the sacreil rites of 
pride. 

Unnumbered treasures ope at once, 
and here 

The various offerings of the world 
appear ; 

From each she nicely culls with curi- 
ous toil, 

And decks tl^e goddess with the glit- 
tering spoil. 

This casket India's glowing gems 
unlocks, 

And all Arabia breathes from yonder 
box. 

The tortoise here and elephant unite, 

Transformed to combs, the speckled, 
and the white. 

Here files of pins extend their shining 
rows. 

Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet- 
doux. 

Now awful beauty puts on all its 
ai ms : 

The fair each moment rises in her 
charms, 

Repairs her smiles, awakens every 
grace, 

And calls forth all the wonders of 
her face ; 

Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 

And keener lightnings quicken in her 
eyes. 

The busy sylphs surround their dar- 
ling care. 

These set the head, and those divide 
the hair, 

Some fold the sleeve, whilst others 
plait the gown; 

And Betty's praised for labors not 
her own. 

Not with more glories, in the ethe- 
real plain, 

The sun first rises o'er the purpled 
main. 

Than, issuing forth, the rival of his 
beams 

Launched on the bosom of the silver 
Thames. 

Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths 
around her shone. 

But every eve was fixed on her alone. 



On her white breast a sparkling cross 
she wore, 

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels 
adore. 

Her lively looks a sprightly mind dis- 
close, 

Quick as her eyes and as unfixed as 
those : 

Favors to none, to all she smiles ex- 
tends ; 

Oft she rejects, but never once of- 
fends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers 
strike. 

And like the sun, they shine on all 
alike. 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void 
of pride. 

Might hide her faults if belles had 
faults to hide: 

If to her share some female errors 
fall. 

Look on her face aud you'll forget 
them all. 
This nymph, to the destruction 
of mankind, 

Nourished two locks which graceful 
hung behind 

In equal curls, and well conspired to 
deck 

With shining ringlets the smooth 
ivory neck. 

Love in these labyrinths his slaves 
detains 

And mighty hearts are held in slen- 
der chains. 

With hairy springes we the birds be- 
tray, 

Slight lines of hair surprise the finny 
prey. 

Fair tresses man's imperial race en- 
snare. 

And beauty draws us with a single 
hair. 



[From the Rape of the Lock.'] 
MERIT BEYOND BEAUTY. 

Say, why are beauties praised and 
honored most, 
The wise man's passion, and the vain 
man's toast ? 



Wliy decked with all that land and 
» sea afford. 

Why angels called, and angel-like 
adored ? 

Why round our coaches crowd the 
white-gloved beaux, 

AVhy bows the side-box from its in- 
most rows ? 

How vain are all these glories, all our 
pains, 

I'nless good sense preserve what 
beauty gains: 

That men may say, when we the 
front-box grace. 

Behold the first in virtue as in 
face! 

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress 
all day. 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old 
age away ; 

Who would not scorn what house- 
wife's cares produce. 

Or who would learn one earthly thing 
of use ? 



To patch, nay, ogle, might become a 

saint, 
Nor could it sure be such a sin to 

paint. |cay, 

But since, alas I frail beauty must de- 
Curled or uncurled, since locks will 

turn to gray ; 
Since, painted or not painted, all 

shall fade, 
And she who scorns a man must die 

a maid; 
What then remains but well our pow- 
er to use. 
And keep good-humor still whate'er 

we lose ? 
And trust me, dear! good-humor can 

prevail. 
When airs, and flights, and screams, 

and scolding fail; 
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes 

may roll; 
Charms strike the sight, but merit 

wins the soul. 



WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
Had been of being wise or witty. 

Ere 1 had done with writing themes, 
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chit- 

ty,- 

"i ears, years ago, while all my joys 
AVere in my fowling-piece and filly; 

In short, while I was yet a boy, 
I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 

I saw her at the country ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and 
fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
Of hands across and down the mid- 
dle. 
Hers w^as the subtlest spell by far 
Of all that sets young hearts ro- 
mancing: 
She was our queen, our rose, our 
star ; 
And then she danced, — O Heaven ! 
her dancing. 



Dark Avas her hair; her hand \\as 
white; 
Her voice was exquisitely tender; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light; 
I never saw a waist so slender; 
Her every look, her every smile. 
Shot right and left a score of ar- 
rows : 
I thought 't was Venus fiom her 
isle. 
And wondered \vhere she'd left her 
sparrows. 

She talked of politics or prayers. 
Of Southey's prose or Words- 
worth's sonnets. 
Of danglers or of dancing bears. 

Of battles or the last new bonnets: 
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock. — 

To me it mattered not a tittle, — 
If those bright lips had quoted 
Locke, 
I might liave thought they nnn-- 
mured Little. 



770 



PRAED. 



Through sunny May, through sultry 
June, 
I loved her with a love eternal; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 
I wrote them to the ."Sunday Jour- 
nal. 
My mother laughed; 1 soon found 
out 
That ancient ladies have no feel- 
ing: 
My father frowned ; but how should 
gout 
See any happiness in kneeling ? 



She was the daughter of a dean, — 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
She had one brother just thirteen. 

Whose color was extremely hectic; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her boun- 
ty; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And lord-lieutenant of the county. 



But titles and the three-per-cents, 

And mortgages and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes and 
rents, 
O, what are they to love's sensa- 
tions ? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering 
locks, — 
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid 
chooses; 
He cares as little for the stocks 
As Baron Rothschild for the 
Muses. 



She sketched; the vale, the wood, the 
beach, 
Grew lovelier from her pencil's 
shading: 
She botanized; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir 
fading: 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 

She made the Catilina jealous : 
She touched the organ ; I could 
stand 
For hours and hours to blow the 
bellows. 



She kept an album too, at home, 
Well filled with all an albnm's 
glories, — 
Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 
Patterns for trinnnings, Persian 
stories, 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 
Fierce odes to famine and to 
slaughter. 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
And recipes for elder-water. 



And she was flattered, worshipped, 
bored ; 
Her steps were watched, her dress 
was noted ; 
Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
She laughed, — and every heart was 
glad. 
As if the taxes were abolished; 
She frowned, — and every look was 
sad. 
As if the opera were demolished. 



She smiled on many just for 
fun, — 
I knew that there was nothing in 
it; 
I was the first, the only one, 

Her heart had thought of for a 
minute. 
I knew it, for she told me so. 

In phrase which Mas divinely 
moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand, — and 
oh. 
How sweetly all her notes were 
folded! 



Our love was most like other loves. — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rosebud and a pair of gloves. 
And "Fly Not Yet'"' upon the 
river ; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
Some hopes of dying broken- 
hearted ; 
A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vom's, — and then we 
parted. 



PRAED. 



771 



We parted : months ami years rolled 
by: 
We met again four summers after. 
Our parting was all sob and sigh, 
Our meeting was all mirth and 
laughter ! 
For in my heart's most secret cell 
There had been many other lodg- 
ers; 
And she M'as not the ball-room's 
belle, 
But only Mrs. — Something — Rog- 
ers I 



QUINCE. 

Neah a small village in the West, 
Where many very Avorthy people 
Eat, drink, play Avhist, and do their 
best 
To guard from evil, church and 
steeple. 
There stood — alas, it stands no 
more I — 
A tenement of brick and plaster. 
Of which, for forty years and four. 
My good friend Quince was lord 
and master. 

Welcome was he in hut and hall. 
To maids and matrons, i^eers and 
peasants; 
He won the sympathies of all 

By making puns and making pres- 
ents. 
Though all the parish was at strife. 
He kept his counsel and his car- 
riage. 
And laughed, and loved a quiet life. 
And shrunk from Chancery-suits 
and marriage. 

Sound were his claret and his head, 
Warm were his double ale and 
feelings ; 
His partners at the whist-club said 
That he was faultless in his deal- 
ings. 
He went to church but once a week. 
Yet Dr. Poundtext always found 
him 
An upright man, who studied Greek, 
And liked to see his friends around 
him. 



Asylums, hospitals, and schools 

He used to swear were made to 
cozen ; 
All who subscribed to them were 
fools — 

And he subscribed to half a dozen. 
It was his doctrine that the poor 

Were always able, never willing; 
And so the beggar at the door 

Had first abuse, and then a shilling. 

Some public principles he had. 

But was no flatterer nor fretter; 
He rapped his box when things were 
bad. 
And said: '' I cannot make them 
better." 
And much he loathed the imtriofs 
snort. 
And much he scorned the place- 
man's snutfle, 
And cut the fiercest quarrels short 
With, "Patience, gentlemen, and 
shuffle!" 

For full ten years his pointer. 
Speed, 
Had couched beneath his masters 
table, 
For twice ten years his old white 
steed 
Had fattened in his master's stable. 
Old Quince averred upon his troth 
They were the ugliest beasts in 
Devon ; 
And none knew why he fed them 
both 
With his own hands, six days in 
seven. 

Whene'er they heard his ring or 
knock. 
Quicker than thought the village 
slatterns 
Flung down the novel, smoothed the 
frock. 
And took up Mrs. Glasse or pat- 
terns. 
Alice was studying baker's bills; 
Louisa looked the queen of knit- 
ters; 
Jane happened to be hemming frills; 
And Nell by chance was making 
fritters. 



PRIOR. 



But all was vain. And while decay 
Came like a tranquil moonlight 
o'er him, 
And found him gouty still and gay, 
With no fair nurse to bless or bore 
him; 
His rugged smile and easy chair. 

His dread of matrimonial lectures, 
His wig, his stick, his powdered hair 
Were themes for very grave con jec- 
tures. 

Some sages thought the stars above 
Had crazed him with excess of 
knowledge ; 
Some heard he had been crossed in 
love 
Before he came away from college: 
Some darkly hinted that His Grace 
Did nothing, great or small, with- 
out him; 
Some whispered, with a solemn face. 
That there was something odd 
about him. 

I foiuid him at threescore and ten 

A single man, but bent quite dou- 
ble; 
Sickness was coming on him then 

To take him from a world of trou- 
ble. 
He prosed of sliding down the hill, 

Discovered he grew older daily; 
One frosty day he made his will. 

The next he sent for Dr. Baillie. 



And so he lived, and so he died; 

When last I sat beside his pillow. 
He shook my hand: "Ah me!" he 
cried, 

" Penelope nuist wear the willow! 
Tell her I hugged her rosy chain 

While life was flickering in the 
socket. 
And say that when I call again 

I'll bring a license in my pocket. 

" I've left my house and grounds to 
Fag- 
I hope his master's shoes will suit 
him! — 
And I' ve bequeathed to you my 
nag. 
To feed him for my sake, or shoot 
him. 
The vicar's wife will take old Fox, 
She'll find him an unconnnon 
mouser; 
And let her husband have my box. 
My Bible and my Assmanshauser, 

" Whether I ought to die or not 

My doctors cannot quite determine ; 
It's only clear that I shall rot. 

And be, like Priam, food for ver- 
min. 
My debts are paid. But Nature's 
debt 

Almost escaped my recollection ! 
Tom, we shall meet again; and yet 

I cannot leave you my direction ! " 



Matthew Prior. 



FOR MY OWN MONUMEXT. 

As doctors give physic by way of 

prevention, 

Matt, alive and in health, of his 

tombstone took care: 

For delays are imsafe, and his pious 

intention (heir. 

May haply be never fulfilled by his 

Then take Matt's word for it, the 
sculptor is paid , 
That the figure is fine, pray believe 
your own eye; 



Yet credit but lightly what more may 
be said. 
For we flatter ourselves, and teach 
marble to lie. 

Yet counting so far as to fifty his 
years. 
His virtues and vices were as other 
men's are; 
High hopes he conceived, and he 
smothered great fears. 
In a life party-colored, half pleas- 
lu'e, half care. 



Nor to business a drudge, nor to fac- 
tion a slave, 
lie strove to make int'rest and 
freedom agree; 
In public employments industrious 
and grave, 
And alone with his friends, Lord ! 
how merry was he. 

Now in equipage stately, now humbly 
on foot, 
Both fortunes he tried, but to 
neither would trust; 
And whirled in the round as the 
wheel tm-ned about, 
He found riches had wings, and 
knew man was but dust. 

This verse, little polished, though 
mighty sincere. 
Sets neither his titles nor merits to 
view; 
It says that his relics collected lie 
here, 
And no mortal yet knows if this 
may be true. 

Fierce robbers there are that infest 
the highway, 
So Matt may be killed, and his 
bones never found; 
False witness at court, and fierce tem- 
pests at sea. 
So Matt may yet chance to be 
hanged or be drowned. 

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, 
fly in air, 
To Fate we must yield, and the 
thing is the same; 
And if passing thou giv'st him a 
smile or a tear, 
He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind 
to his fame. 



AX EPITAPH. 

Interukd beneath this marble stone 
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
While rolling threescore years and one 
Did round this globe their courses run ; 
If human things went ill or well. 
If changing empires rose or fell, 



The morning past, the evening came. 

And found this couple j List the same. 

They walked and ate, good folks: 
What then ? 

Why, then they walked and ate again ; 

They soundly slept the night away; 

They did just nothing all the day. 

Nor sister either had nor brother; 

They seemed just tallied for each 
other. 

Their moral and economy 

Most perfectly they made agree ; 

Each virtue kept its proper bound. 

Nor trespassed on the other's ground. 

Nor fame nor censure they regarded; 

They neither punished nor rewarded. 

He cared not what the footman did; 

Her maids she neither i:>raised nor 
chid : 

So every servant took his course, 

And, bad at first, they all grew Avorse, 

Slothful disorder tilled his stable. 

And sluttish plenty decked her table. 

Their beer was strong, their wine was 
port ; 

Their meal was large, their grace was 
short. 

They gave the poor the remnant meat. 

Just when it grew not fit to eat. 

They paid the church and parish rate, 

And took, but read not, the receipt; 

For which they claimed their Sun- 
day's due. 

Of sknnbering in an upper pew. 

No man's defects sought they to 
know, 

So never made themselves a foe. 

No man's good deeds did they com- 
mend. 

So never raised themselves a friend. 

Nor cherished they relations poor. 

That might decrease their present 
store ; 

Nor bai'u nor house did they repair. 

That might oblige their future heir. 

They neither added nor confounded ; 

They neither wanted nor abounded. 

Nor tear nor smile did they employ 

At news of grief or public joy. 

When bells were rung and bonfires 
made 

If asked, they ne'er denied their aid; 

Their jug was to the ringers carried, 

AVhoever either died or married. 



774 



PRIOR. 



Their billet at the fire was found, 
Whoever was deposed or crowned. 
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor 

wise. 
They Avould not learn, nor could 

advise ; 
AVithout love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
Tliey led — a kind of — as it Mere; 
Nor wislied, nor cared, nor laughed, 

nor cried, 
And so they lived, and so they died. 



FROM 



THE THIEF AND THE 
COnDELIER." 



'' What frightens you thus, my good 

son '?" says the i)riest; 
" You murdered, are sorry, and have 

been confessed." 
"O fatlier! my sorrow will scarce 

save my bacon ; 
For 'twas not that I murdered, but 

that I was taken." 



" Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head 

with such fancies ; 
Rely on the aid you shall have from 

St. Francis; 
If the money you promised be brought 

to the chest. 
You have only to die; let the church 

do the rest." 



" And what will folks say, if they see 

you afraid ? 
It reflects upon me, as I knew not my 

trade. 
Courage, friend, for to-day is your 

period of sorrow; 
And things will go better, believe me, 

to-morrow." 



" To-morrow!" our hero replied in a 
fright; 

"He that's hanged before noon, 
ought to think of to-night." 

" Tell your beads," quoth the priest, 
" and be fairly trussed up. 

For you surely to-night shall in Para- 
dise sup." 



" Alas ! " quoth the 'squire, " howe'er 

sumptuous the treat, 
Parbleu ! I shall have little stomach 

to eat ; 
I should therefore esteem it great 

favor and grace. 
Would you be so kind as to go in my 

place." 

"That I would," quoth the father, 

' ' and thank you to boot ; 
But our actions, you know, with our 

duty must suit; 
The feast I proposed to you, I cannot 

taste, 
For this night, by our order, is marked 

for a fast." 



[From Alma.] 

RICHARD'S THEORY OF THE MIND. 

I SAY, whatever you maintain 
Of Alma in the heart or brain. 
The plainest man alive may tell ye 
Her seat of empire is the belly. 
From hence she sends out those sup- 
plies. 
Which make us either stout or 

wise : 
Your stomach makes the fabric roll 
Just as the bias rules the bowl. 
The great Achilles might employ 
The strength designed to ruin Troy; 
He dined on lion's marrow, spread 
On toasts of ammunition bread ; 
But, by his mother sent away 
Amongst the Thracian ghis to play, 
Effeminate he sat and (fuiet — 
Strange product of a cheese-cake 

diet! 
Ol)serve the various operations 
Of food and drink in several nations. 
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel 
Upon the strength of Avater gruel ? 
But who shall stand his rage or force 
If first he rides, then eats iiis horse? 
Salads, and eggs, and lighter fare 
Tune the Italian spark's guitar: 
And, if I take Dan Congreve right, 
Pudding and beef make Bi-itons 
fight. 



John Godfrey Saxe. 



irOlV CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 

Come, listen all unto my song 

It is no silly fable ; 
'Tis all about the mighty cord 

They call the Atlantic Cable. 

Bold Cyrus Field, he said, says he, 

I have a pretty notion 
That 1 can run a telegraph 

Across the Atlantic Ocean. 

Then all the people laughed, and said, 
They'd like to see him do it; 

He might get half-seas over, but 
He never could get through it : 

To carry out his foolish plan 

He never would be able; 
He might as well go hang himself 

With his Atlantic Cable. 

But Cyrus was a valiant man, 

A fellow of decision: 
And heeded not their mocking words, 

Their laughter and derision. 

Twice did his bravest efforts fail. 
And yet his mind was stable; 

He wa'n't the man to break his heart 
Because he broke his cable. 

'•Once more, my gallant boys!" he 
cried ; 
'■'Three times! —you know the 
fable, — 
(I'll make it thirty,'" muttered he, 
"But I will lay the cable!") 

Once more they tried, — hurrah ! 
hurrah ! 

What means this great commotion? 
The Lord be praised! the cable's laid 

Across the Atlantic Ocean! 

Loud rang the bells, — for flashing 
through 

Six hundred leagues of water, 
Old Mother England's Ix-nison 

ISalutes her eldest daughter! 



O'er all the land the tidings speed. 
And soon, in every nation. 

They'll hear aljout the cable with 
Profoundest admiration ! 

Xow long live President and Queen; 

And long live gallant Cyrus; 
And may his. courage, faith, and zeal 

With euudation fire us ; 

And may we honor evermore 
The manly, bold, and stable ; 

And tell our sons, to make them 
brave. 
How Cyrus laid the cable ! 



THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN. 
I LONG have been puzzled to guess, 

And so I have frequently said. 
What the reason could really be 

That I never have happened to 
wed ; 
But now it is perfectly clear, 

I am under a natural ban ; 
The girls are already assigned, — 

And I'm a superfluous man ! 

Those clever statistical chaps 

Declare the numerical run 
Of women and men in the world, 

Is twenty to twenty-and-one ; 
And hence in the pairing, you see, 

Since wooing and wedding began. 
For every connubial score, 

They've got a superfluous man! 

By twenties and twenties they go. 

And giddily rush to their fate. 
For none of the number, of course. 

Can fail of a conjugal mate ; 
But while they are yielding in scores 

To Nature's inflexible plan. 
There's never a woman for me, — 

For I'm a superfluous man! 

It isn't that I am a churl. 
To solitude over-inclined; 



SAXE. 



It isn't that I am at fault 

In morals or manners or mind : 

Then wluit is the reason, you ask, 
Tm still with the bachelor-clan '? 

I merely w as numbered amiss, — 
And I'm a supertluous man! 

It isn't that I am in want 

Of personal beauty or grace, 
For many a man with a wife 

Is uglier far in the face; 
Indeed, among elegant men 

I fancy myself in tlie van ; 
But what is the value of that. 

When I'm a superfluous man ? 

Although I am fond of the girls, 

For aught I could ever discern 
The tender emotion I feel 

Is one that they never return; 
'Tis idle to quarrel with fate! 

For, struggle as hard as I can, 
They're mated already, you know, — 

And I'm a superfluous man! 

No wonder I grumble at times. 

With women so pretty and plenty, 
To know that I never was born 

To figure as one of the twenty ; 
But yet, when the avei-age lot 

With critical vision I scan, 
I think it may be for tlie best 

That I'm a superfluous man! 



r/IE PUZZLED CEXSUS-TAKER. 

" Got any boys ? " the Marshal said 
To a lady from over the Rhine; 

And the lady shook her flaxen head, 
And civilly answered "iVe/u /* 

" Got any girls ?" the Marshal said 
To the lady from over the Khine; 

And again the lady shook her head, 
Ami civilly answered, "A^'eia.'" 

'• But some are dead ?" the Marshal 
said. 

To the lady from over the Rhine; 
Aud again tlie lady shook her head. 

And civilly answered, ^'Nein ! " 



• .V('(», pronounced iiine, is the German 
tor "No." 



'•■ Husband, of course ? " the Marshal 
said 

To the lady from over the Rhine ; 
And again she shook her flaxen head. 

And civilly answered, "iVe/u .' " 

" The devil you have!'' the Marshal 
said 

To the lady from over the Rhine : 
And again she shook her flaxen head. 

And civilly answered, ''^Ve/H .' " 

" Now what do you mean by shaking 
your head, 
And always answering, 'Nine' ?" 
'■'■ Icli kann nicht Jiiu/llsch."^ civilly 
said 
The lady from over the Rhine. 



SOJ^G OF SARATOGA. 

" Pray, what do they do at the 
Springs ?" 

The question is easy to ask; 
But to answer it fully, my dear, 

Were rather a serious task. 
And yet, in a bantering way. 

As the magpie or mocking-bird 
sings, 
I'll venture a bit of a song 

To tell what they do at the Springs ! 

Iin})rimis, my darling, they drink 

The waters so sparkling and clear; 
Though the flavor is none of the best, 

And the odor exceedingly queer; 
But the fluid is mingled, you know. 

With wholesome medicinal things, 
So they drink, and they drink, and 
they drink, — 

And that's what they do at the 
Springs ! 

Then with appetites keen as a knife. 

They hasten to l)reakfast or dine 
(The latter precisely at three. 

The former from seven till nine. ) 
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush 
When the eloquent dimier-bell 
rings ! • 

Then they eat, and they eat, and they 
eat, — 
And that's what they do at the 
Springs ! 



Now they stroll in the beautiful 
walks. 
Or loll in the shade of the trees : 
Where many a whisper is heard 

That never is told by the breeze; 
And hands are counningled with 
hands, 
Regardless of conjugal rings; 
And they flirt, and they-flirt, and they 
flirt,— 
And that's what they do at the 
Springs ! 

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, 

And nuisic is shrieking away; 
Terpsichore governs the hour. 

And Fashion was never so gay ! 
An arm round a tapering waist, 

How closely and fondly it clings! 
So they waltz, and they waltz, and 
they waltz, — 

And that's what they do at the 
Springs ! 

In short — as it goes in the world — 
They eat, and they drink, and they 
sleep ; 
They talk, and they walk, and they 
woo ; 
They sigh, and they laugh, and 
they \\eep ; 
They read, and they ride, and they 
dance; 
(With other unspeakable things;) 
They pray, and they play, and they 

pay, — 

And that's what they do at the 
Springs ! 



EARL Y niSlNG. 

" God bless the man who first in- 
vented sleep ' ' 
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: 

And bless him, also, that he didn't 
keej) 
Hi% great discovery to himself; nor 
try 

To make it — as the lucky fellow 
might — 

A close monopoly by patent-right! 



Yes ; bless the man who first invented 

sleep 
(I really can't avoid the iteration); 
But blast the man with curses loud 

and deep, 
Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, 

or station. 
Who first invented, and went round 

advising, 
That artificial cut-off, — Early Risiug. 

"Rise with the lark, and with the 

lark to bed," 
Observes some solemn, sentimental 

owl ; 
Maxims like these are very cheaply 

said; 
But, ere you make yourself a fool 

or fowl. 
Pray just inquire about his rise anil 

fall. 
And whether larks have any beds 

at all ! 

The time for honest folks to be abed 

Is in the morning, if I reason right: 

And he who cannot keep his precious 

heail 

Upon the pillow till it's fairly light. 

And so enjoy his forty morning 

winks. 
Is up to knavery ; or else — he drinks. 

Thomson, who sang about the " Sea- 
sons," said 
It was a glorious thing to rist in 
season ; 

But then he said it — lying — in his 
bed, 
At ten o'clock, A. M., — the very 
reason 

He wrote so charmingly. The simple 
fact is. 

His preaching wasn't sanctioned by 
his practice. 

'Tis, doubtless, Mell to be sometimes 
awake, — 
Awake to duty, and awake to 
truth, — 
But when, alas! a nice review we 
take 
Of our best deeds and days, we 
find, in sooth. 



778 



SAXE. 



The hours that leave the slightest 

cause to weep 
Are those we passed in childhood or 

asleep ! 

' Tis beautiful to leave the world 

awhile 
For the soft visions of the gentle 

night; 
And free, at last, from mortal care or 

guile. 
To live as only in the angels' sight, 
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut 

in, 
Where, at the worst, we only dream 

of sin! 

So let us sleep, and give the Maker 
pi'aise. 
I like the lad, who, when his father 
thought 

To clip his morning nap by hack- 
neyed phrase 
Of vagrant worm by early songster 
caught. 

Cried, '' Served him right! — it's not 
at all surprising; 

The worm was punished, sir, for 
early rising! " 



ABOUT HUSBANDS. 

"A jnan is, in general, better pleased 
when he has a good dinner upon his table, 
than when his wife speaks Greek."— Sam. 
Joiixsox. 

Johnson was right. I don't agree to 
all 
The solenm dogmas of the rough 
old stager; 
But very much approve what one 
may call 
The minor morals of the "Ursa 
Major." 

Johnson was right. Although some 
men adore 
Wisdom in woman, and with learn- 
ing cram her, 
There isn't one in ten but thinks far 
more 
Of his own grub than of his 
spouse's grammar. 



I know it is the greatest shame in life ; 
But who among them (save, per- 
haps, myself) 
Returning hungry home, but asks his 
wife 
What beef — not books — she has 
upon the shelf ? 

Though Greelj and I^atin l)e the lady's 
boast, 
They're little valued by her loving 
mate; 
The kind of tongue that husbands 
relish most 
Is modern, boiled, and served upon 
a plate. 

Or if, as fond ambition may com- 
mand. 
Some home-made verse the happy 
matron show him. 
What mortal spouse but from her 
dainty hand 
Woukl sooner see a pudding than a 
poem ? 

Young lady, — deep in love with Tom 
or Harry, — 
'Tis sad to tell you such a tale as 
this ; 
But here's the moral of it: Do not 
marry; 
Or, marrying, take your lover as 
he is, — 

A very man, — with something of the 
brute 
(Unless he prove a sentimental 
noddy). 
With passions strong and appetite to 
boot, 
A thirsty soul within a hungry 
bodv. 



Avery man, — not one of nature's 
clods, — 
With hiunan failings, whether saint 
or sinner; • 

Endowed, perhaps, with genius from 
the gods, 
But apt to take his temper from his 
dinner. 



SAXE. 



779 



UAILROAD RHYME. 

.SiNGiXG through the forests, 

Kattling over ridges; 
Shooting under arches, 

liumbUng over bridges; 
Wliizzing through the mountains, 

Buzzing o'er the vale, — 
Bless me! this is pleasant, 

Hiding on the rail ! 

Men of different " stations " 

In the eye' of fame. 
Here are very quickly 

Coming to the same; 
High and lowly people, 

Birds of every feather, 
On a common level. 

Travelling together. 

Gentleman in shorts, 

Looming very tall; 
Gentleman at large 

Talking very small; 
Gentleman in tights. 

With a loose-ish mien; 
Gentleman in gray, 

Looking rather green; 

Gentleman quite old. 

Asking for the news; 
Gentleman in black, 

In a fit of blues ; 
Gentleman in claret. 

Sober as a vicar; 
Gentleman in t^veed, 

Dreadfully in liquor! 

Stranger on the right 

Looking very sunny, 
Obviotisly reading 

Something rather funny. 
Xow the smiles are thicker, — 

Wonder Mhat they mean ! 
Faith, he's got the Knicker- 

Bocker Magazine! 

Stranger on the left 

Closing up his peepers; 
Xow he snores amain, 

Like the Seven Sleepers; 
At his feet a volume 

Gives the explanation. 
How the man grew stupid 

From "Association." 



Ancient maiden lady 

Anxiously remarks, 
That there nuist be peril 

'Mong so many sparks; 
Eoguish-looking fellow, 

Turning to the stranger, 
Says it's his opinion 

She is out of danger! 

Woman with her baby, 

Sitting vis-a-vis; 
Baby keeps a-squalllng. 

Woman looks at me ; 
Asks about the distance. 

Says it's tiresome talking, 
Xoises of the cars 

Are so very shocking! 

Market-woman, careful 

Of the precious casket, 
Knowing eggs are eggs. 

Tiglitly holds her basket , 
Feeling that a smash. 

If it came, would surely 
Send her eggs to pot. 

Bather prematurely. 

Singing through the forests. 

Battling over ridges; 
Shooting under arches, 

Bumbling over bridges ; 
Whizzing through the mountains. 

Buzzing o'er the vale, — 
Bless me! this is pleasant, 

Biding on the rail! 



THE FAMILY MAX. 

I ONCE was a jolly young beau. 
And knew how to pick up a fan. 

But I've done with all that, you must 
know. 
For now I'm a family man ! 

When a partner I ventured to take, 
The ladies all favored the plan ; 

They owned I was certain to make 
" Such an excellent faanily man! " 

If I travel by land or by water, 
I have charge of some Susan or 
Ann; 



Mrs. Brown is so sure that her daugh- j Young people must have an exem- 



ter 



Is safe with a family man ! 



plar. 
And I am a family man ! 



The trunks and tlie bandboxes round The club-men I meet in the city 

'em All treat me as well as they can, 

^Vlthsomothing like horror I scan, | And only exclaim, " What a pity 



]5ut thouii'li 1 may mutter '"Confound 
'em!'' 
I smile — like a family man ! 

I once was as gay as a templar, 
But levity's now under ban; 



Poor Tom is a family man ! ' ' 

I own I am getting quite pensive ; 

Ten cluldren, from David to Dan, 
Is a family rather extensive ; 

But then — I'm a family man ! 



Richard Henry Stoddard. 



THE MISTAKE. 

He saw in sight of liis house. 

At dusk, as stories tell, 
A Avoman picking mulberries, 

And he liked her looks riglit well. 

He struggled out of his chair, 
And began to beclvon and call; 

But slie went on picking nuilberries, 
Xor looked at him at all. 

" If Famine should follow you. 
He would find the harvest in; 

You think yourself and your mulber- 
ries 
Too good for a mandarin. 

I have yellow gold in my sleeve. " 
But she answered, sharp and bold, 

" Be off! Let me pick my mulberries, 
I am bought witli no man's gold. " 

Slie scratched his face with her nails, 
Till he turned and fled for life, 

For the lady picking nudberries 
Was his true and virtuous wife ! 



TOO OLD FOI! KISSES. 

My uncle Pliilip, hale old man, 
Has children by the dozen; 

Tom, Ned, and jack, and Kate and 
Ann — 
How many call me '"Cousin '?'' 



Good boys and girls, the best was 
Bess, 

I bore her on my shoulder; 
A little bud of loveliness 

That never should grow older! 
Her eyes had such a pleading M"ay. 

They seemed to say, '" Don't strike 
me. " 
Then, growing bold another day, 

'" I mean to make you like me. " 
I liked my cousin, early, late. 

Who liked not little misses: 
She used to meet me at the gate, 

Just old enough for kisses ! 

This was, I think, three years ago. 

Before I went to college : 
I learned but one thing — liow to 
row, 

A healthy sort of knowledge. 
When I was plucked, (we won the 
race, ) 

And all was at an end there, 
I thought of Uncle Philip's place, 

And every country friend there. 
My cousin met me at the gate. 

She looked five, ten years older, 
A tall young woman, still, sedate, 

With manners coyer, colder. 
She gave her hand with stately 
pride. 

" Why, what a greeting this is! 
You used to kiss me." She replied, 

'" I am too old for kisses." 



I loved — I loved my Cousin Bess, 

She's always in my mind now; 
A full-blown bud of loveliness. 

The rose of womankind now ! 
She must have suitors ; old and young 

Must bow their heads before her; 
Vows must be made, and songs be 
sung 

By many a mad adorer. 
But I must win her: she must give 

To me her youth and beauty ; 
And I — to love her while I live 

Will be my happy duty. 
For she will love me soon or late, 

And be my bliss of blisses. 
Will come to meet me at the gate, 

Nor be too old for kisses '■ 



THE MARRIAGE KNOT. 

I KNOW a bright and beauteous May, 

Who knows I love her well ; 
But if she loves, or will some day, 

I cannot make her tell. 
She sings the songs I write for her. 

Of tender hearts betrayed ; 
But not the one that I prefer. 

About a country maid. 
The hour when I its burden hear 

Will never be forgot : 
" O stay not long, but come, my dear, 

And knit our marriage knot! " 

It is about a country maid — 

I see her in my mind; 
She is not of her love afraid, 

And cannot be unkind. 



She knits, and sings with many a 
sigh, 

And, as her needles glide. 
She wishes, and she wonders why 

He is not at her side. 
" He promised he would meet me 
here, 

Upon this very spot : 
O stay not long, but come, my dear. 

And knit our marriage knot! " 

My lady will not sing the song; 

" Wliy not ? " I say. And she. 
Tossing her head, "it is too long." 

Andl, " Too short, may be." 
She has her little wilful ways, 

But I persist, and then, 
" It is not maidenly," she says, 

" For maids to sigh for men." 
''But men must sigh for maids, I 
fear, 

I know it is my lot. 
Until you whisper, ' Come, my dear, 

And knit our marriage knot!' " 

Why is my little one so coy ? 

Why does she use me so '? 
I am no fond and foolish boy 

To lightly come and go. 
A man'who loves, I know my heart. 

And will know hers ere long. 
For, certes, I will not depart 

Until she sings my song. 
She learned it all, as you shall hear. 

No word has she forgot. 
"Begin, my dearest." "Come, my 
dear. 

And knit our marriage knot ! " 



Jonathan Swift. 



FROM 



VERSE ff OX HIS OU'.V 
DEATHS 



Some great misfortune to portend 
No enemy can match a friend. 
With all the kindness they profess. 
The merit of a lucky guess — 
When daily how-d'ye's come of 

course, 
And servants answer: "Worse and 

worse!" — 



Would please them better than to tell. 
That, God be praised ! thedean is well. 
Then he, who prophesied the best. 
Approves his foresight to the rest: 
' ' You know I always feared the worst. 
And often told you so at first." 
He'd rather choose that I should die, 
Than his prediction i)rove a lie. 
Not one foretells I shall recover. 
But all agree to give me over. 



THACKERAY 



Yet, should some neighbor feel a 
pain 
Just in the parts where I complain, 
How many a message would he send? 
What hearty prayers that I should 

mend ! 
Inquire what regimen I kept ? 
What gave me ease, and hoAV I slept ? 
And more lament when I was dead. 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good companions, never fear; 
For, though you may mistake a year, 
Tliough your prognostics run too fast. 
They must be verified at last. 

Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
How is the dean ? he's just alive. 
Now the departing prayer is read ; 
He hardly breathes. The dean is 
dead. 



Before the passing-bell begun, 

Tlie news through half the town has 

run; 
"Oh! may we all for death pre- 
pare! 
What has he left ? and who's the 

heir?" 
I know no more than -what the 

news is; 
'Tis all bequeathed to public uses. 
"To public uses! there's a wliim! 
What had the public done for him ? 
Mere envy, avarice, and pride : 
He gave it all — Imt first lie died. 
; And had the dean in all the nation 
i No worthy friend, no poor rela- 
j tion ? 

So ready to do strangers good, 
' Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 



William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous. 
For wluch no rhyme our language 
yields. 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its 
name is — 
The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And there's an inn, not rich and 
splendid. 
But still in comfortable case — 
The which in youth I oft attended, 
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotcli of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, 
saffern. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and 
dace; 
All tliese you eat at Terre's tavern. 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties. 

Should love good victuals and good 
drinks. 



And Cordelier or Benedictine 
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 
AVhich served him up a Bouilla- 
baisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is as before; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your 
table. 

And hoped you liked your Bouilla- 
baisse. 

We enter; nothing's changed or older. 
" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, 
pray?" 
The waiter stares and slirugs his 
shoulder; — 
"Monsieur is dead this many a 
day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race! " 
" What will Monsieur require for din- 
ner ?'" 
"Say, do you still cook Bouilla- 
baisse ?" 



"Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's 
answer; 
" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
"Tell me a good one." "That I 
can, sir; 
The Chambertin with yellow seal. ' 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place; 
" He's done with feasting and with 
drinking, 
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is — 

The table still is in the nook; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, 

This well-known chair since last I 
took. 
When first I saw ye, Cava LuogM, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face. 
And now a grizzled grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. ' 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine ? 
Come, M'aiter! quick, a tlagon crusty, 
I'll pledge them in the good old 
wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 
My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their 
l^laces. 
And share the wine and Bouilla- 
baisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous 
marriage ; 
There's laughing Tom is laiighing 

yet; 

There's brave Augustus drives his 
carriage ; 
There's poor old Fred in the Ga- 
zette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing: 
Good Lord ! the world has wagged 
apace 
Since here we set the claret flowing. 
And drank, and ate the Bouilla- 
baisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flit- 
ting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit as now I'm sitting. 

In this same place — but not alone. 



A fair young form was nestled near 
me, 
A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to 
cheer me. 
— There' s no one now to share my 
cup. 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 
Come, fill it, and have done with 
rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whatever the seal 
is; 
And sit you down and say your 
grace 
With thankful heart whate'er the 
meal is. 
Here comes the smoking Bouilla- 
baisse I 



SORROWS OF WERTHER. 

Weether had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter; 

Would you know how first he met her? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady. 

And a moral man was Werther, 
And for all the wealth of Indies 

Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed and pined and ogled. 
And his passion boiled and bubbled. 

Till he blew his silly brains out. 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter. 

Like a well-conducted person. 
Went on cutting bread and butter. 



LITTLE BILLEE. 

There were three sailors of Bristol 
City 
Who took a boat and went to sea. 
But first with beef and captain's bis- 
cuits. 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 



7S-4 



THRALE. 



There was gorging Jack, and guzzling 
Jimmy, 
And the yoimgest he was little 
Billee. 
Now when they'd got as far as the 
Equator, 
They'd nothing left but one split 
pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"'I am extremely hungaree." 

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 
"We've nothing left, us must eat 
we." 

.Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"With one another we shoi;kln't 
agree ! 
There's little Bill, he's young and 
tender. 
We're old and tough, so let's eat 
he." 

" O Billy! we're going to kill and eat 
you, 
.So undo the button of your che- 
mie." 
When Bill received this information, 
He used his pocket-handkerchie. 



'• First let me say my catechism. 
Which my poor mother taught to 
me." 
" 3Iake haste! make haste!" says 
guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pidled out his snicker- 
snee. 

Billee went up to the maiu-top-gallant 
mast. 
And down he fell on his bended 
knee. 
He scarce had come to the Twelfth 
Commandment 
When up he jumps — "There's 
land I see!" 

•'Jerusalem and Madagascar, 
And North and South Amerikee, 

There's the British flag a riding at 
anchor. 
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 

So when they got aboard of the Ad- 
miral's, 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged 
Jimmee 
But as for little Bill, he made him 
The captain of a Seventy-three. 



Hester L. Thrale (Piozzi). 



THE THREE WAliNINGS. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 
That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our later stages. 
When pains grow sharp and sickness 

rages. 
The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe. 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
When sports went round and all 

were gay. 
On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room. 



And, looking grave, "You must," 

says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride, and come 

with me. " 
"With you ! and quit my Susan's side? 
With you!" the hapless husband 

cried ; 
" Young as I am, 't is monstrous 

hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: 
My tlioughts on other matters go; 
This is my wedding-day, you know. " 

What more he urged I have not 
heard, 
His reasons could not well be 
stronger ; 
So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 



THRALE. 



785 



Yet calling up a serious look, 

His liour-glass trembled while he 

spoke — 
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no 

more [hour; 

Sliall Death disturb your mirthful 
And further, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation. 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several warnings you shall 

have. 
Before you' re summoned to the grave ; 
Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve, 
In hopes you'll have no more to say. 
But Mhen 1 call again this way. 
Well pleased the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how 

well, 
How roundly he pursued his course. 
And smoked his pipe, and stroked 
his horse, 
The willing nuise shall tell : 
He chaffered then, he bought and 

sold. 
Nor once perceived his growing old. 

Nor thought of death as near : 
His friends not false, his wife no 

shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few. 

He passed his hours in jieace. 
But while he viewed his Avealth 

increase. 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod. 
Old time, whose haste no mortal 

spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, inuxwares. 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood, 

As all alone he sate. 
The unwelcome messenger of Fate 
Once more before him stood. 

Half killed with anger and surprise, 
"So soon returned!" old Dodson 

cries. 
"So soon, d'ye call it!" Death 

replies ; 



"Surely, my friend, you're but in 
jest! 

Since I was here before 
'T is six-and-thirty years at least. 

And you are now fourscore. ' ' 

"So much the worse," the clown 

rejoined ; 
" To spare the aged would be kind ; 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And yoiu' authority, — is 't regal ? 
Else yoiT are come on a fool's errand, 
With but a secretary's warrant. 
Beside, you promisei me three 

warnings. 
Which I have looked for nights and 

mornings ; 
But for that loss of time and ease 
I can recover damages. " 

"I know," cries Death, " that at 

the best 
I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at 

least : 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farms and 

stable : 
Your years have run to a great 

length ; 
I wish you joy, though, of your 

strength!" 

" Hold," savs the farmer, " not so 
fast! 
I have been lame these four years 
past!" 
"And no great wonder," Death 
replies : 
" However, you still keep your eyes; 
And sure, to see one's loves and 

friends 
For legs and arms would make 
amends. " 
"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it 
might. 
But latterly I've lost my sight. "' 

" This is a shocking tale, 't is true; 
But still there's comfort left for you: 
Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 
"There's none,'' ciies he; "anil 
if there were, 
I'm grown so deaf, I could iu)t hear. '' 



7! 



TROWBRIDGE. 



"Nay, then," the spectre stern 
rejoined, 
" These are unjustifiable yearnings: 
If you are lame and deaf and blind, 
You've liad your three suthcient 
warnings ; 



So come along, no more we'll part. " 
He said, and touched him with his 

dart. 
And now, old Dodson, turning pale. 
Yields to his fate, — so ends my 

tale. 



John Townsend Trowbridge. 



THE VAGABONDS. 

We are two travellers, Iloger and I. 
Koger's my dog. — Come here, you 
scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your 
eye! 
Over the table, — look out for the 
lamp ! 
The rogue is growing a little old; 
Five years we've tramped through 
wind and weather. 
And slept out-doors when nights 
were cold. 
And eat and drank — and starved — 
together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell 
you! 
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs ( poor fellow ! 
The paw he holds up there's been 
frozen). 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for 
strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from 
the griddle. 
And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank ye, sir, — 1 never drink; 

Kogerandlareexceedingly moral, — 
Aren't we, Roger ?— See him wink ! — 
AVell, something hot, then — we 
won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too. — see him nod his 
head? 
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't 
talk! 
He understands every word that's 
said, 
And he knows good milk from 
water-and-chalk. 



The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect" 
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my 
dog. 
But he sticks by, through thick and 
thin ; 
And this old coat,with its empty 
pockets. 
And rags that smell of tobacco and 
gin. 
He'll follow 'while he has eyes in 
his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 
Would do it, and prove, through 
every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 
To such a misera})le, thankless 
master ! 
No, sir! — see him wag his tail and 
grin ! 
By George ! it makes my old eyes 
water ! 
That is, there's something in this gin 
That chokes a fellow. But no 
matter ! 

We'll have some music, if you're 
willing. 
And Roger (hem! what a plague a 
cougli is, sir!) 
Shall march a little — Start, you 
villain ! 
Paws up ! Eyes front ! Salute your 
officer ! 
'Bout face! Attention! Take vour 
rifle ! 
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) 
Now hold your 
Cap while the gentleman gives atrifle, 
To aid a poor old patriot soldier! 



TROWBRIDGE. 



787 



Marcli ' Halt ! Now show how the 

i-ebel shakes 
When he stands up to hear his 
sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 
To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps. — that's live ; he's mighty 
knowing ! 
The night'li before us, fill the 
glasses ! 
Quick, sir' I'm ill, — my brain is 
going! — 
Some brandy, — thank you, — there ! 
it passes ! 

Why not reform ? That's easy said; 

But I've gone through such 

wretched treatment, [bread. 

Sometimes forgetting the taste of 

And scarce remembering what meat 

meant, 

That my poor stomach's past refonn; 

And there are times when, mad 

with thinking, 

I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 
At your age, sir, home, fortune, 
friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to 
drink ; — . 
The same old story; you know 
how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic 
features, — 
You needn't laugh, sir; they were 
not then 
Such a burning libel on God's 
creatiires : 
I was one of your handsome men ! 

If you had seen her. so fair and 
young. 
Whose head was happy on this 
breast! |sung 

If you could have heard the songs 1 
When the wine went round, you 
wouldn't have guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 
From door to door with fiddle and 
dog, 
Eagged and penniless, and playing 
To vou to-night for a glass of gros ! 



She' s married since, — a parson' s wife ; 
'Twas better for her that we should 
part, — 
Better the soberest, prosiest life. 
Than a blasted home and a broken 
heart. 
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak 
and spent 
On the dusty road: a carriage 
stopped : 
But little she dreamed, as on she 
went. 
Who kissed the coin that her fin- 
gers ilropped ! 

You've set me talking, sir; I'm 
sorry ; [change 

It makes me wild to think of the 
What do you care for a beggar's stoiy ? 
Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 
'Twas well she died before — Do 
you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
The ruin and wretchedness here 
below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
This pain ; then Roger and I will 
start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, 
leaden. 
Aching thing in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would 
weep, if he could. 
No doubt, remembering things that 
were, 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of 
food, |ciu\ 

And himself a sober, respectable 

I'm better now; that glass was warm- 
ing. 
You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We nmst be fiddling and performing 
For supper and bed, or starve in 
the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
But soon we shall go where lodg- 
ings are free, 
x\.nd the sleepers need neither victuals 
nor drink; 
The sooner, the better for Roger 
and me ! 



TROWBRIDGE. 



DARIUS GREEN^. 

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, 
Wise or otherwise, good or bad. 
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump 
With flaj^ping arms from stake or 
stmup. 

Or, spreading the tail 

Of his coat for a sail. 
Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 

And wonder why 

He couldn't fly. 
And flap and flutter and wish and 

try— 
If ever you knew a country dunce 
Who didn't try that as often as once, 
All I can say is, that's a sign 
He never would do for a hero of mine. 

An aspiring genius was D. Green : 
The son of a farmer, — age fourteen: 
His body was long and lank and 

lean, — 
Just right for flying, as will be seen; 
He had two eyes as bright as a bean, 
And a freckled nose that grew be- 
tween, 
A little awry, — for I must mention 
That he had riveted his attention 
Upon his wonderful invention. 
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the 

strings 
And working his face as he worked 

the wings, 
And with every turn of gimlet and 

screw 
Turning and screwing his mouth 

I'ound too. 
Till his nose seemed bent 
To catch the scent. 
Around some corner, of new-baked 

pies. 
And his wrinkled cheeks and his 

squinting eyes 
Grew puckered into a queer grimace. 
That made him look very droll in the 

face. 
And also very wise. 

And wise he must have been, to do 

more 
Than ever a genius did before. 
Excepting Dsedalus of yore 
And his son Icarus, who wore 



Upon their backs 

Those wings of wax 
He had read of in the old almanacs. 
Darius was clearly of the opinion 
That the air was also man's dominion, 
And that, with paddle or fin or 
pinion. 

We soon or late 

Should navigate 
The azure as now we sail the sea. 
The thing looks simple enough to me ; 

And if you doubt it, 
Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 

'•The birds can fly, 

An' why can't I? 

Must we give in," 

Says he with a grin, 

" 'T the bluebird an' phoebe 

Are smarter n we be '? 
Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller 
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us 
holler ? 

Does the leetlechatterin'. sassy wren, 
No bigger' n my thumb, know more 
than men ? 
Jest show me that ! 
Er prove 't the bat 
Hez got more brains than's in my bat. 
An' I'll back down, an' not till 
then ! " 

He argued further: " Ner I can't see 
What's th' use of wings to a bumble- 
bee, 
Fer to get a livin' with, more'n to 
me ; — 
Ain't my business 
Importanter'n his'n is ? 

" That Icarus 
Was a silly cuss, — 
Him an' his daddy Daedalus. 
They might 'a' knowed wings made 

o' wax 
Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard 
whacks. 
I'll make mine o' luther, 
Er suthin er other. ' ' 

And he said to himself, as he tin- 
kered and planned : 
"But I ain't goin' to show my hand 



TROWBRIDGE. 



789 



To nummies that never can under- 
stand 

The fust idee that's big an' grand. 
They'd 'a'laft an' made fun 

O' Creation itself afore 't was done ! " 

So he kept his secret from all the rest, 

Safely buttoned within his vest; 

And in the loft above the shed 

Himself he locks, with thimble and 
thread 

And wax and hammer and buckles 
and screws, 

And all such things as geniuses use ; — 

Two bats for patterns, curious fel- 
lows ! 

A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; 

An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as 

Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; 

A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; 

A piece of harness ; and straps and 
strings ; 
And a big strong box, 
In which he locks 

These and a hundred other things. 

His grinning brothers, Reuben and 

Burke 
And Nathan and Jotham and Solo- 
mon, ku-k 
Around the corner to see him work, — 
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 
Drawing the waxed-end througli with 

a jerk, 
And boring the holes with a comical 

quirk 
Of his wise old head, and a knowing 

smirk. 
But vainly they mounted each other's 

backs. 
And poked through knot-holes and 

pried through cracks; 
With wood from the pile and straw 

from the stacks 
He plugged the knot-holes and calked 

the cracks; 
And a bucket of water, which one 

would think 
He had brought up into the loft to 

drink 
When he chanced to be dry. 
Stood always nigh. 
For Darius was sly ! 
And whenever at work he happened 

to spy 



At chink or crevice a blinking eye. 
He let a dipper of water fly. 
" Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep. 
Guess ye' 11 ketch a weasel asleep!" 

And he sings as he locks 

His big strong box : — 

S()N(;. 
" The weasel's head is small an' trim, 
An' he is leetle an' long an' slim. 
An' quick of motion an' nimble of 
limb. 
An' ef yeou'll be 
Advised by me. 
Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' 
him!" 

So day after day 
He stitched and tinkered and ham- 
mered away. 
Till at last 'twas done, — 
The greatest invention under the 

sun ! 
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray 
f er some f ini ! ' ' 

'Twas the Fourth of July, 
And the weather was dry. 
And not a cloud was on all the sky. 
Save a few light fleeces, which here 
and there. 
Half mist, half air. 
Like foam on the ocean went float- 
ing by: 
Just as lovely a morning as ever was 

seen 
For a nice little trip in a flying-ma- 
chine. 

Thought cunning Darius : "Now I 

shan't go 
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. 
I'll say I've got sicli a terrible cough ! 
An' then, when the folks 'ave all 
gone off, 
I'll hev full swing 
Fer to try the thing. 
An' practyse a leetle on the wing.'' 

" Ain't goin' to see the celebration? " 
Says Brother Nate. "No; bothera- 
tion! 
I've gotsich a cold — a toothache — I — 
My gracious! — feel's though I should 
fly!" 



Said Jotliam, " iSho ! / 
Guess ye better go." 
Btit Darius said, ''No! 
Sliouldn't wonder 'f yeou miglit see 

me, tliougli, 
'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red 
O' tliis jumpin", thumpin' pain 'n my 

liead." 
For all the while to himself he said : — 

" 1 tell ye what! 
I'll fly a few times around the lot, 
To see how 't seems, then soon 'si've 

got 
The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, 
I'll astonish the nation. 
An' all creation. 
By flyin' over the celebration ! 
Over their heads I'll sail like an 

eagle ; 
I'll balance myself on my wings like 

a sea-gull ; 
I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' 

on the steeple ; 
I'll flop up to winders an' scare the 

people ! 
I'll light on the llbbe'ty-pole, an' 

crow ; 
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools 
below, 
' What world's this 'ere 
That I've come so near ? ' 
Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap 

f'm the moon; 
An' I'll try a race 'itli their ol' bal- 
loon!" 

He crept from his bed ; 
And, seeing the others were gone, he 

said, 
" I'm a-gittin' over the cold'n my 
head." 
And away he sped, 
To open the wonderful box in the 
shed. 

His brothers had walked but a little 

way 
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to 

say, 
" What on airth is he up to, hey ? " 
"Don'o' — the's suthin' er other to 

pay, 

Er he wouldn't 'a'stayed to hum to- 
day." 



Says Burke, '"His toothache's all'n 

his eye I 
He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July. 
Ef he hedn't got some machine to 

try." 
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: '• By 

darn ! 
Le's hurry back an' hide'n the barn, 
An' pay hun fer tellin' us that yarn ! " 
"Agreed!" Through the orchard 

they creep back. 
Along by the fences, behind the 

stack. 
And one by one, through a hole in 

the wall. 
In under the dusty bai-n they crawl. 
Dressed in their Sunday garments 

all; 
And a very astonishing sight was 

that, 
When each in his cobwebbed coat 

and hat 
Came up through the floor like an 

ancient rat. 
And there they hid ; 
And Reuben slid 
The fastenings back, and the door 

undid. 
" Keep dark! said he, 
" While I squint an' see what the' is 

to see." 

As knights of old put on their mail. — 

From head to foot 

An iron suit. 
Iron jacket and iron boot. 
Iron breeches, and on the head 
No hat, but an iron pot instead. 

And under the chin the bail, — 
I believe they called the thing a helm : 
And the lid they carried they called 

a shield ; 
And, thus accoutred, they took the 

held. 
Sallying forth to overwhelm 
The dragons and pagans that plagued 
the realm : — 

So this modern knight 
Prepared for flght. 
Put on his winiis and strapped them 

tight; ^ 
Jointed and jaunty, strong and 
lisht: 



TROWBRIDGE. 



791 



Buckled them fast to shoulder and 

hip, — 
Ten feet they measured from tip to 

tip: 
And a liehn had he, but that he wore 
Not on his head Hke those of yore. 
But more hke the helm of a ship. 

'• Hush!" Reuben said, 
" He's up in the shed! 
He's opened the winder, — I see his 

head ! 
He stretches it out, 
An' pokes it about, 
Lookin' to see if the coast is clear. 

An' noboily near ; — 
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! 
He's ricjsjin' a spring-board over the 

^sill! 
Stop laffin' Solomon ! Burke, keep 

still ! 
He's a climin' out now. Of all the 

things ! 
Wat's he got on? I van, it's wings! 
And that 'tother thing? I vum, it's 

a tail ! 
An' there he sets like a hawk on a 

rail ! 
Steppin' careful, he travels the length 
Of his spring-board, and teeters to 

try its strength. 
Now he stretches his wings, like a 

monstrous bat; 
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' 

that, 
Fer to see "f the's any one passin' by; 
But the's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin 

nigh. 
Tlieij turn up at him a wonderin" 

eye, 
To see — The dragon? he's goin' to 

fly! 

Away he goes! Jimminy ! what a 
jiuup ! 
Flop — flop — an' plump 
To the ground with a thump ! 
Flutt'rin" an' flound'rin, all'n a 
lump! " 



As a demon is luu'led by an angel's 

spear 
Heels over head, to his proper 

sphere. 
Heels over head, and head over heels. 
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, 
So fell Darius. Upon his crown. 
In the midst of the barn-yard he 

came down. 
In a wonderful whirl of tangled 

strings. 
Broken braces and broken springs. 
Broken tail and broken wings. 
Shooting stars, and various things. 
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, 
And much that \vasn't so sweet by 

half. 
Away with a bellow fied the calf. 
And what was that? Did the gosling 

laugh? 
'Tis a merry roar 
From the old barn-door, 
Ai\(\ he hears the voice of Jotham 

crying, 
"Say, D'rius! how de yeou like 

fly in' ?" 

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 
Darius just turned and looked that 

way. 
As he stanched his sorrowful nose 

with his cuff. 
" Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 
He said; "but the' ain't such a 

thunderin' sight 
O' fun in't when ye come to light." 



I have just room for the moral here ; 
And this is the moral : Stick to your 

sphere. 
Or if you insist, as you have the 

right. 
On spreading your wings for a loftier 

flight. 
The moral is, — Take care how you 

light. 



792 



JOHN WO L GOT {PETER PINDAR). 



John Wolcot (Peter Pindar). 



THE liAZOR-SELLER. 

A FELLOAV in a market town, 

Most musical, cried razors up and 

down, 
And offered twelve for eighteen- 

pence ; 
Which certainly seemed wondrous 

cheap, 
And for the money quite a heap. 
As every man would huy, with 

cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer 

heai'd ; 
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad 

black beard. 
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck 

beneath his nose : 
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence 

he paid, 
And proudly to himself in whispers, 

said, 
"This rascal stole the razors, I 

suppose. 

" No matte;; if the fellow he a knave. 
Provided that the razors shave; 
It certainly will be a monstrous 
prize. " 
So home the clown, with his good 

fortune, went. 
Smiling in heart and soul, content. 
And quickly soaped himself to ears 
and eyes. 

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, 
Hodge now began with grinning pain 

to grub, 
.Just like a hedger cutting furze: 
'Twas a vile razor! — then the rest 

he tried — 
All were impostors — " Ah! " Hodge 

sighed , 
I wish my eighteen-pence within 

my purse." 



Hodge sought the fellow 
him — and begun : 



• found 



"P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to 

you 'tis fmi. 
That people tiay themselves out of 

their lives: 
You rascal ! for an hour have I been 

grubbing, 
Giving my crying whiskers here a 

scrubbing. 
With razors just like oyster-knives. 
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, 
To ciy up razors that can't shave. " 

'■ Friend," quoth the razor-man, 
" I'm not a knave: 
As for the razors you have bought. 
Upon my soul I never thought 
That they Avould shave. " 
" Xot think they'd shave!" quoth 
Hodge, with wondering eyes. 
And voice not nuich unlike an 
Indian yell ; 
" What were they made for then, you 
dog ? " he cries; 
" Made!" quoth the fellow, with a 
smile, — "to sell" 



THE PILGUIMS AND THE PEAS. 

A BRACE of sinners, for no good. 
Were ordered to the Virgin 
Mary's shrine. 
Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, 
wood. 
And in a curled white wig looked 
wondrous fine. 

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues 

to travel. 
AVith something in their shoes much 

worse than gravel : 
In short, their toes so gentle to 

amuse. 
The priest had ordered peas into 

their shoes: 
A nostrum famous in old popish 

times 
For purifying souls deep sunk in 

crimes : 



ANONYMOUS. 



793 



A sort of apostolic salt, 

That popish parsons for its jDOwers 
exalt, 
For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. 

The knaves set off on the same day. 
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray ; 
But very different was their speed, 
I wot: 
One of the sinners galloped on. 
Light as a bullet from a gun ; 

The other limped as if he had been 
shot. 
One saw the Virgin, soon — peccavi 
cried — 
Had his soul whitewashed all so 
clever ; 
"When home again he nimbly hied. 
Made fit with saints above to live 
for ever. 

In coming back, however, let me 
say. 

He met his brother rogue about half- 
way — 

Hobbling with outstretched hands 
and bending knees. 

Cursing the souls and bodies of the 
peas : 

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and 
brows in sweat, 



Deep sympathizing with his groaning 
feet. 

"How now!" the light-toed white- 
washed pilgrim broke, 
" You lazy lubber! " 
" You see it! " cried the other, "'tis 

no joke ; 
My feet once hard as any rock. 
Are now as soft as blubber. 

" But, brother sinner, do explain 
How 'tis that you are not in pain — 
AVhat power hath work'd a wonder 

for //OH?- toes — 
Whilst I, just like a snail, am 

crawling 
Now groaning, now on saints 

devoutly bawling, 
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my 

woes? 

" How is't that you can like a grey- 
hound go. 
Merry as if nought had happened, 
burn ye?" 
"Why,'' cried the other, grinning, 
' ' you must know. 
That just before I ventured on my 
journey. 
To walk a little more at ease, 
I took the liberty to boil my peas ! " 



Anonymous. 



THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 
A MATRIMOIflAL EPIC. 

John Dobbins was so captivated 
By Mary Trueman's fortune, face, 

and cap, 
(With near two thousand pounds 

the hook was baited), 
That in he popped to matrimony's 

trap. 

One small ingredient towards happi- 
ness, 

It seems ne'er occupied a single 
thought ; 



For his accomplished bride 
Appearing well supplied 
With tlie three charms of riches, 
beauty, dress. 
He did not, as he ought. 
Think of aught else; so no in- 
quiry made he 
As to the temper of his lady. 

And here was certainly a great omis- 
sion; 

None should accept of Hymen's gentle 
fetter, 
" For worse or better," [tion. 

Whatever be their prospect or condi- 



794 



ANONYMOUS. 



Without acquaintance with each 


As it has been 


other's nature; 


My lot to see, I think you'll own your 


For many a mild and quiet crea- 


wife 


ture 


As good or better than the generality. 


Of charming disposition, 




Alas! by thoughtless marriage has 


An interest in your case I really 


destroyed it. 


take. 


So take advice; let girls dress e'er so 


And therefore gladly this agreement 


tastily. 


make : 


Don't enter into wedlock hastily 


An hundred eggs within the basket 


Unless you can't avoid it. 


lie, 




With which your luck, to-morrow, 


Week followed week, and it must 


you shall try; 


be confest, 


Also my five best horses, with my 


The bridegroom and the bride had 


cart ; 


both been blest; 


And from the farm at dawn you shall 


Month after month had languidly 


depart. 


transpired. 


All round the country go, 


Both parties became tired : 


And be particular, I beg; 


Year after year dragged on ; 


Where husbands rule, a horse be- 


Their happiness was gone. 


stow, 




But where the wives, an egg. 


Ah ! foolish pair ! 


And if the horses go before the 


" Bear and forbear" 


eggs, 


Should be the rule for married folks 


I'll ease you of your wife, — I will, - 


to take. 


I'fegs!" 


But blind mankind (poor discon- 




tented elves) ! 


Away the married man departed 


Too often make 


Brisk and light-hearted: 


The misery of themselves. 


Not doubting that, of course, 




The first five houses each would take 


At length the husband said, "This 


a horse. 


will not do ! 


At the first house he knocked, 


Mary, I never will be ruled by you; 


He felt a little shocked 


So, wife, d' ye see ? 


To hear a female voice, with angiy 


To live together as we can't agree, 


roar. 


Suppose we part!" 


Scream out,— " Hullo ! 


With woman's pride. 


Who's there below ? 


Mary replied. 


Why, husband, are you deaf ? go to 


" With all my heart!" 


the door. 




See who it is, 1 beg." 


John Dobbins then to Mary's father 


Our poor friend John 


goes. 


Trudged quickly on, 


And gives the list of his imagined 


But first laid at the door an egg. 


woes. 






I will not all his journey through 


" Dear son-in-law ! " the father said. 


The discontented traveller pursue; 


" I see 


Suffice it here to say 


All is quite true that you've been 


That when his first day's task was 


telling me; 


nearly done. 


Yet there in marriage is such strange 


He'd seen an hundred husbands, 


fatality, 


minus one. 


That when as much of life 


And eggs just ninety-nine had given 


You shall have seen 


away. 



ANONYMOUS. 



795 



''Hal there's a house where he I 
seek must dwell," 

At length cried John; "I'll go and 
ring the bell." 

The servant came, — John asked him, 
"Pray, 
Friend, is your master in the 
way? " 
"No," said tlie man, with 
smiling phiz, 
" My master is not, but my mis- 
tress is; 
Walk in that parlor, sir, my 

lady's in it: 
Master will be himself there — in 
a minute." 
The lady said her husband then was 

dressing, 
And, if his business was not very 

pressing, 
She would prefer that he should Avait 
until 
His toilet was completed ; 
Adding, " Pray, sir, be seated." 
," Madam, I will," 
Said John, with great politeness; 
"but I own 
That you alone 
Can tell me all I wish to know; 
Will you do so ? 
Pardon my rudeness 
And just iiave tlie goodness 
(A wager to decide) to tell me — 
do — 
Who governs in this liouse, — your 
spouse or you ? ' ' 

"Sir," said the lady, with a 

doubting nod, 
"Your question's very odd; 
But as I think none ought to be 
Ashamed to do their duty, do 

you see ? 
On that account I scruple not to 

say 
It always is my pleasure to obey. 
But here's my husband (always 

sad without me) ; 
Take not my word, but ask him, 

if you doubt me." 

'* Sir," said the husband, " 't is most 
true; 



I promise you, 
A more obedient, kind, and gentle 
woman 
Does not exist." 
" Give us your fist," 
Said John, " and, as the case is some- 
thing more than common. 
Allow me to present you witli a 

beast 
Worth fifty guineas at tlie very 
least. 

" There's Smiler, sir, a beauty, you 
must own. 
There's Prince, tliat handsome 
black. 
Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the 
roan. 
Besides old Dunn ; 
• Come, sir, choose one ; 
But take advice from me, 
Let Prince be he; 
Why, sir, you'll look a hero on his 
back." 

" I'll take the black, and thank you 
too." 
" Nay, husband, that will never 

do; 
You, know, you've often heard 

me say 
How much I long to have a gray; 
And this one will exactly do for 
me." 
"No, no," said he, 
" Friend, take the four others 

back. 
And only leave the black." 
"Nay, husband, I declare 
I must have the gray mare:" 
Adding (with gentle force), 
"The gray mare is, I'm sure, the 
better horse."' 

"Well, if it must be so, — good sir. 
The gray mare ire prefer; 

So we accept your gift." John made 
a leg : 

" Allow me to present you with an egg ; 
'Tis my last egg remaining. 
The cause of my regaining, 

I trust the fond affection of my wife. 

Whom I will love the better all my 
life. 



mm 



796 



ANONYMOUS. 



' ' Home to content has her kind 
father brought me ; 

I thank him for the lesson he has 
taii2;lit me." 



DOCTOR DUOLLHEAD-S CURE. 

TiiKEE weeks to a day had old Doctor 
Drollhead 
Attended Miss Dehby Keepill ; 
Three weeks to a day had she lain in 
her bed 
Defying his marvellous skill. 

She put out her tongue for the twenty- 
first time, 
But it looked very much as it 
should ; 
Her pulse with the doctor's scarce 
failed of a rhyme, 
As a matter jDf course, it was good. 

To-day has this gentleman happened 
to see — 
Very strange he's not done it 
before — 
That the way to recovery simply 
must be 
Right out of this same chamber- 
door. 

So he said. " Leave your bed, dear 
Miss Keepill, I pray; 
Keep the powders and pills, if you 
miist. 
But the color of health will not long 
stay away 
If you exercise freely, I trust." 



" Why, doctor! of all things, when I 
am so weak 
That scarce from my bed can I 
stir, 
Of color and exercise thus will you 
speak ? 
Of what are you thinking, dear 
sir?" 

"That a fright is the cure, my good 

lady, for you," 

He said to himself and the wall. 

And to frighten her, what did the 

doctor do, 

But jump into bed, boots and all ! 

And as in jumped he, why then out 
jumped she, 
Like a hare, except for the pother, 
And shockingly shocked, pray who 
wouldn't be ? 
Ran, red as a rose, to her mother. 

Doctor Drollhead, meanwhile, is 
happily sure, 
Debby owes a long life just to 
him; 
And vows he's discovered a capital 
cure 
For the bedrid when tied by a 
whim. 

At any rate, long, long ago this oc- 
cm-red. 
And Debby is not with the dead; 
But in pretty good liealth, 't may be 
gently inferred. 
Since she makes all the family 
bread. 



SUPPLEMENT. 



Berkeley Aiken. 

USCnOWXED KINGS. 

O YE uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Made royal by the brain and heart; 
Of all earth's wealth the noblest 

part. 
Yet reckoned nothing in the mart 
Where men know naught but sordid 

things — 
All hail to you, most kingly kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
Whose breath and words of living 

flame 
Have waked slave-nations from theii' 

shame, 
And bid tliem rise in manhood's 

name, — 
Swift as the curved bow backward 

springs — 
To follow you, most kingly kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
Wiiose strong right arm hath oft been 

bared 
Where fire of righteous battle glared, 
And where all odds of wrong ye 

dared ! — 
To think on you the heart upsprings, 
O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 

O ye uncrowned luit kingly kings! 
Whose biu-ning songs like lava 

poured. 
Have smitten like a two-edged sword 
Sent forth by Heaven's avenging 

Lord 
To purge the eftrth where serfdom 

clings 
To all but you, O kingly kings ! 



O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
To whose ecstatic gaze alone 
The beautiful by Heaven is shown. 
And who have made it all youroAMi: 
Your lavish hand around us flings 
Earth's richest wreaths, O noble 
kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
The heart leaps wildly at your 

thought; 
And the brain fires as if it caught 
Shreds of your mantle; ye have 

fought 
Not vainly, if your glory brings 
A lingering light to earth, O kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
Whose souls on Marah's fruit did sup, 
And went in fiery chariots up 
When each had drained his hemlock 

cup, — 
Ye priests of God, but tyrants' stings, 
Uncrowned but still the kingliest 

Icings ! 



Annie R. Annan. 

RECOMPENSE. 

The summer coaxed me to be glad. 
Entreating with tlie primrose hue 

Of sunset skies, Avith downward calls 
From viewless larks, with winds 
that blew 

The red-tipped clover's breast abroad. 
And told the mirth of waterfalls; 

In vain! my heart would not be 
wooed 

From the December of its mood. 



r98 



AYTON—BARR. 



But on a day of wintry skies 

A withei-ed rose slipped from my 
book; 

And as I cauglit its faint perfi;me 
The soul of summer straight forsook 

The little tenement it loved. 
And tilled the world with song 
and bloom, 

Missed, in their season, by my sense, 

fcjo found my heart its recompense. 



Sir Robert Ayton. 

FAIR AND UXWORTHY. 

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 
And I might have gone near to love 
thee. 
Had I not found the lightest prayer 
That lips could speak, had power 
to move thee : 
But I can let thee now alone, 
As Morlhy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find 
Thee such an unthriftof thysweets, 

Thy favors are but like the wind, 
That kisses everything it meets; 

And since thou canst with more than 
one, 

Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 

The morning rose that imtouched 

stands 
Armed with her briers, how sweetly 

smells! 
But plucked and strained through 

ruder hands, 
Xo more her sweetness with her 

dwells. 
But scent and beauty both are gone, 
And leaves fall from her one by one. 

►Such fate, erelong, will thee betide. 
When thou hast handled been 
awhile. — 
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; 
And I will sigh, while some will 
smile. 
To see thy love for more than one 
Hath brought thee to be loved by 
none. 



Anna Letitia Barbauld. 

THE SABBATH or THE .SOUL. 

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting 
cares. 
Of earth and folly bom ; 
Ye shall not dim the light that 
streams 
From this celestial morn. 

To-morrow will be time enough 
To feel your harsh control; 

Ye shall not violate, this day, 
The Sabbath of my soul. 

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts, 
Let fires of vengeance die ; 

And, purged from sin, may I be- 
hold 
A (iod of purity. 



Mary A, Barr. 

frHfTE POPPIES. 

O MYSTIC, mighty flower whose frail 

white leaves 
Silky and crumpled like a banner 

furled. 
Shadow the black mysterious seed 

that gives 
The drop that soothes and lulls a 

restless world; 
Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to 

kill. 
Holding the knowledge of both good 

and ill. 

The rose for beauty may outshine 

thee far, 
The lily hold herself like some 

sweet saint 
Apart from earthly griefs, as is a 

star 
Apart from any fear of earthly 

taint; 
The snowy poppy like an angel 

stands. 
With consolation in her open hands. 



BENJAMIN. 



799 



Ere History was born, the poet 
sung 
How godlike Thone kne^v thy com- 
pelling power, 

And ancient Ceres, by strange sor- 
rows wrung, 
Sought sweet oblivion from thy 
healing Hower. 

Giver of sleep! Lord of the Land of 
Dreams ! 

C) simple weed, thou art not what 
man deems. 



The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their 
god of sleep 
Wandering about tlirough the 
blac-k midnight hours, 

toothing the restless couch with 
slumbers deep, 
And scattering thy medicated flow- 
ers. 

Till hands were folded for their final 
rest. 

Clasping white poppies o'er a ijulse- 
less breast. 



We have a clearer vision; every 
hour 
Kind hearts and hands the poppy 
juices mete. 

And panting sufferers bless its kindly 
power. 
And \\eary ones invoke its peace- 
ful sleep. 

Health has its rose, and grape and 
joyfid palm. 

The poppy to the sick is wine and 
balm. 



I sing the poppy I The frail snowy 

weed ! 
The flower of mercy! that within 

its heart 
Doth keep "a drop serene"' for 

human need, 
A drowsy balm for every bitter 

smart. 
For hapjiy hours the rose will idly 

blow — 
The poiijiy hath a charm for pain 

and woe. 



Park Benjamin. 

PRESS ON. 

Press on! there's no such word as 
fail! 
Press nobly on ! the goal is near, — 
Ascend the mountain ! breast the 
gale ! 
Look upward, onward, — never 
fear ! 
Why shoidilst thou faint '? Heaven 
smiles above. 
Though storm and vapor intervene ; 
That sun shines on, whose name is 
Love, 
Serenely o'er Life's shadow' d scene. 

Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps, 

Climb boldly o'er the torrent's 
arch ; 
He fails alone who feebly creeps; 

He wins, who dares tlie hero's 
march. 
Be thou a hero ! let thy might 

Tramp on eternal snows its way. 
And through the ebon walls of night 

Hew down a passage unto day. 

Press on ! if Fortune play thee false 
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; 
Whom now she sinks slie now 
exalts, 
Taking old gifts and granting new. 
The wisdom of the present hour 
Makes up for follies past and 
gone, — 
To weakness strength succeeds, and 
power 
From frailty springs, — press on! 
jsress on ! 

Press on! what though upon the 
ground 
Thy love has been poured out like 
rain ? 
That happiness is always found 
The sweetest, which is born of 
pain. 
Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms, 
A bird sings from some blighted 
tree. 
And, in the dreariest desert, blooms 
A never-dving rose for thee. 



800 



BEN8EL —BLACKIE. 



Therefore, press on! and reach the 
goal, 
And gahi the prize and wear the 
crown ; 
Faint not ! for to the steadfast soul 
Come wealth and honor and re- 
nown. 
To thine own self be true, and keep 
Thy mind from sloth, thy heart 
from soil ; 
Tress on ! and thou shalt surely reap 
A heavenly harvest for thy toil ! 



Annie Berry Bensel 

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

See you yonder castle stately ? 

On the rocks it stands alone. 
Gleaming in the silver moonlight 

Like a sentinel of stone. 

Years ago in that old castle 
Dwelt a lady, proud and grand ; 

Fairer than the fairest lady 
You might find in all the land. 

It A\as on her bridal morning — 
So the gossips tell the tale — 

Lady Hilda walked the garden, 
Fairer than the roses pale. 

Soon she reached the massive gate- 
way, 

And her dark eyes sparkled bright, 
As she saw a gay procession 

Wending towards the castle heiglit. 

For she knew it was lier lover, 
With his merry comrades all; 

Foremost in the glittering pageant 
Kode Count Rupert, fair and tall. 

Just between them and the castle 
Lay a chasm wide and deep; 

They must ride still further onward 
O'er the bridge their road to keep. 

But Count Rupert saw the lady 
Standing by the gateway there, 

Dauntlessly he turned his charger. 
Heeding not the cry, " Bewarel" 



" It is but a narrow chasm, 
Go you by the bridge," cried lie, 

" I will leap to yonder hillock. 
There my lady waits for me." 

All in vain his comrades' warning, 
Vain, alas, his page's cries; 

Forward leaps the noble charger, 
Lady Hilda veils her eyes. 

One long cry of bitter anguish ! 

She who heard it, swooning, fell; 
Knowing by that single outcry 

All the tale there was to tell. 

Turn your eyes beyond the castle. 
You will see a convent drear; 

There the lady lived they tell me, 
Just for one brief mournful year. 

There within the lofty chapel 
Is a quaint and carven tomb. 

Lady Hilda — well beloved — 

Sleeps beneath the ghostly gloom. 

Xo one dwells in that old castle. 

Desolate it stands alone, 
Gleaming in the silver moonlight 

Like a sentinel of stone. 



John Stuart Blackie. 

THE HOPE OF THE HETERODOX. 

In Thee, O blessed God, I hope. 

In Thee, in Thee, in Thee ! 
Though banned by presbyter and 
pope. 
My trust is still in Thee. 
Thou wilt not cast Thy servant 

out 
■ Because he chanced to see 
With his own eyes, and dared to 
doubt 
What praters preach of Thee. 
Oh no ! no ! no ! 
For ever and ever and aye, 
(Though pope and presbyter 

bray) 
Thou wilt not cast away 
An honest soul from thee. 



BLANCUARD. 



801 



I look around on earth and sky, 

And Thee and ever Thee, 
With open heart and open eyes 

How can I fail to see ? 
My ear drinks in from field and fell 

Life's rival floods of glee: 
Where finds the i^riest his private hell 
AVhen all is full of Thee ? 
Oh no ! no ! no ! 
Though flocks of geese 
Give Heaven's high ear no peace : 
I still enjoy a lease 

Of happy thoughts from Thee. 

My faith is strong; out of itself 

It grows erect and free ; 
No Talmud on the Rabbi's shelf 

(Mves amulets to me. 
Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew 
much. 
But this I plainly see : 
Two legs without the bishop's crutch 
God gave to thee and me. 
Oh no ! no ! no ! 
The church may loose and bind. 
But mind, immortal mind, 
As free as wave or wind. 
Came forth, O God, from Thee ! 

O pious quack! thy pills are good; 

But mine as good may be, " 
And healthy men on healthy food 

Live without you or me. 
Good lady ! let the doer do ! 

Thought is a busy bee. 
Nor honey less what it doth brew. 
Though very gall to thee. 
Oh no! no! no! 
Though councils decree and de- 
clare ; 
Like a tree in the open air. 
The soul its foliage fair 
Spreads forth, 6 God, to Thee! 



Laman Blanchard. 

WISHES OF YOUTH. 

Gayly and greenly let my seasons 

run : 
And should the war-winds of the 

world uproot 



The sanctities of life, and its sweet 

fruit 
Cast forth as fuel for the fiery 

sun, — 
The dews be turned to ice, — fair 

days begun 
In peace, wear out in pain, and 

soimds that suit 
Despair and discord, keep Hope's 

harp-string mute. 
Still let me live as Love and Life were 

one : 
Still let me turn on earth a childlike 

gaze. 
And trust the whispered charities 

that bring 
Tidings of human truth ; with inward 

praise 
Watch the weak motion of each com- 
mon thing. 
And find it glorious — still let me 

raise 
On wintry wrecks, an altar to the 

Spring. 



HIDDEN JOYS. 

Pleasures lie thickest where no 

pleasures seem : 
There's not a leaf that falls upon the 

ground 
But holds some joy, of silence or of 

sound, 
Some sprite begotten of a sunnner 

dream. 
The very meanest things are made 

supreme 
With innate ecstasy. Xo grain of 

sand 
But moves a bright and million- 
peopled land, 
And hath its Edens and its Eves, I 

deem. 
For Love, though blind himself, a 

curious eye 
Ilath lent me, to behold the hearts of 

things. 
And touched mine ear with power. 

Thus far or nigh. 
Minute or mighty, fixed, or free with 

wings, 



802 



BLUNT. 



Delight from many a nameless covert 

sly 
Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar 

sings. 



THE ELOQUENT PASTOR DEAD. 

He taught the cheerfulness that still 

is ours 
The sweetness that still lurks in 

human powers ; 
if heaven be full of stars, the earth 

has flowers. 

His was the searching thought, the 
glowing mind ; 

The gentle will, to others soon re- 
signed ; 

But, more than all, the feeling just 
and kind. 

His pleasures were as melodies from 
reeds — 

8weet books, deep nuisic and un- 
selfish deeds. 

Finding immortal flowers in human 
weeds. 

Trae to his kind, nor of himself 

afraid. 
He deemed that love of God was best 

ari'ayed 
In love of all the things that God has 

made. 

He deemed man's life no feverish 

dream of care, 
But a high pathway into freer air. 
Lift up with golden hopes and duties 

fair. 

He showed how wisdom turns its 

houi"s to years, 
Feeding the heart on joys instead of 

fears, 
And M'orships God in smiles, and not 

in tears. 

His thoughts were as a pyramid up- 
piled. 

On whose far top an angel stood and 
smiled — 

Yet in his heart was he a simple 
child. 



Wilfred Blunt 

(PliOTEUS). 

TO OKE WHO WOULD MAKE A 
CONFESSION. 

Oh! leave the past to bury its own 

dead; 
The past is naught to us, the present 

all. 
What need of last year's leaves to 

strew love's bed ? 
What need of ghosts to grace a fes- 
tival ? 
I would not, if I could, those days 

recall. 
Those days not ours. For us the 

feast is spread. 
The lamps are lit, and music plays 

withal. 
Then let us love and leave the rest 

unsaid. 
This island is our home. Around it 

roar 
Great gulfs and oceans, channels, 

straits, and seas. 
What matter in what wreck we 

reached the shoi-e. 
So we both reached it? AYe can 

mock at these. 
Oh! leave the past, if past indeed 

there be. 
I would not know it. I would know 

l)ut thee. 



THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN. 

I LONG have had a quarrel set with 

Time, 
Because he robbed me. Every day 

of life 
Was wrested from me after bitter 

strife, 
I never yet could see the sun go 

down 
But J was angry in my heart, nor 

hear 
The leaves fall in the wind without a 

tear 
Over the dying summer. I have 

known 
No truce with Time nor Time's ac- 
complice. Death. 



BLUNT. 



803 



The fair world Is the witness of a 
crime 

Repeated every hour. For life and 
breath 

Are sweet to all who live; and bit- 
terly 

The voices of these robbers of the 
heath 

Sound in each ear and chill the passer- 
by. 

— What have we done to thee, thou 
monstrous Time ? 

What have we done to Death that we 
must die ? 



A DAY IN SUSSEX. 

The dove did lend me wings. I fled 

away 
From the loud world which long had 

troubled me. 
Oh, lightly did I flee when hoyden 

May 
Threw her white mantle on the haw- 
thorn tree. 
I left the dusty highroad, and my way 
Was through deejj meadows, shut 

with copses fair. 
A choir of thrushes poured its romid- 

elay 
From every hedge and every thicket 

tliere. 
Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, 

where in the grass. 
All heaped with flowers I lay, from 

noon till eve; 
And hares unwitting close to me did 

pass. 
And still the birds sang, and I could 

not grieve. 
Oh, what a blessed thing that evening 

was! 
Peace, nmsic, twilight, all that could 

deceive 
A soul to joy, or lull a heart to peace. 
It glimmers yet across Avhole years 

like these. 



LAUGHTER AS D DEATH. 

There is no laughter in the natural 

world 
Of beast or fish or bird, though no 

sad doubt 



Of their futurity to them unfurled 
Has dared to check the mirth-com- 

l)elling shout. 
The lion roars his solemn thunder 

out 
To the sleeping Avoods. The eagle 

screams her cry ; 
Even the lark must strain a serious 

throat 
To hurl his blest defiance at the sky. 
Fear, anger, jealousy have found a 

voice ; 
Love's pains or raptures the brute 

bosom swell. 
Nature has symbols for her nobler 

Joys, 
Her nobler sorrows. Who had dared 

foretell 
That only man. by some sad mock- 

Should learn to laugh A\ho learns 
that he must die ? 



COLD COMFORT. 

There is no comfort underneath the 

sun. 
Youth tiu-ns to age ; riches are quickly 

spent ; 
Pride breeds us pain, our pleasures 

punishment; 
The very courage which we count 

upon 
A single night of fever shall break 

down ; 
And love is slain by fear. Death last 

of all 
Spreads out his nets and watches for 

our fall. 
There is no comfort underneath the 

sun! 
— When thou art old, Oman, if thou 

wert proud 
Be humble; pride will here avail thee 

not. 
There is no courage which can con- 
quer death. 
Forget that thou wert wise. Nay, 

keep thy breath 
For prayer, that so thy wisdom be 

forgot 
And thou perhaps get pity of thy 

God. 




804 



BOKER. 



George Henry Boker. 

\_From " The Book of the Dead." ] 

NEARNESS. 

Through the dark path, o'er which 
I tread, 
One voice is ever at my ear, 
One muffled form deserts the dead, 
And haunts my presence far and 
near. 

In times of douht, he wliispers trust ; 

In danger, drops a ^^•arning word; 
And when I waver from the just. 

His low, complaining sigh is heard. 

He follows me, with patient tread. 
From daybreak unto evening's 
close; 

He bends beside me, head by head, 
To scent the violet or the rose. 

And sharing thus my smallest deed. 
When all tlie works of day are past. 

And sleep becomes a blessed need, 
He lies against my heart at last. 

Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee; 

A gracious conu-ade thou art grown ; 
Be near me, cheer, bend over me. 

When the long sleep is settling 
down ! 



IN AUTUMN. 

In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps. 
The distance fades within the mist, 

A cloud of lucid vapor creeps 
Along the lake's pale amethyst. 

The sun is but a blur of light, 
The sky in ashy gray is lost ; 

But all the forest-trees are bright. 
Brushed by the pinions of the frost. 

I hear the clamor of the crow, 
The wild-ducks' far discordant cry. 

As swiftly out of sight they go. 
In wedges driving through the sky. 



I know the sunshine of this hour, 
AVarm as the glow of early May, 

Will never wake the dying flower, 
Xor breathe a spirit through decay. 

The scarlet leaves are doomed to 
fall. 

The lake shall stiffen at a breath ; 
The crow shall ring his dreary call 

Above December's waste of death. 

And so, thou bird of southern flight, 
My soul is yearning for thy wings ; 

I dread the thoughts that come to 
light. 
In gazing on the death of things. 

Fain would I spread an airy plume. 
For lands where endless summers 
, reign. 

And lose myself in tropic bloom. 
And never think of death again. 



MY ANSWEIi. 

When I am turned to mouldering 
dust, 
And all my ways are lost in night, 
When through me crocuses have 
thrust 
Their pointed blades, to find the 
light; 

And caught by plant and grass and 
grain, 
My elements are made a part 
Of nature, and, through sun and 
rain. 
Swings in a flower my wayward 
heart ; 

Some curious mind may haply ask, 
" Who penned this scrap of olden 
song ? 

Paint US the man whose Avoful task 
Frowns in the i^ublic eye so long." 

I answer, tndy as I can ; 

I hewed the wood, the water drew; 
I toiled along, a common man, — 

A man, in all things, like to you. 



BOL TON— BRADDOCK. 



805 



Sarah K. Bolton. 

ENTEIiED INTO REST. 

Soldier, statesman, scholar, friend, 
Brother to the lowliest one. 

Life has come to sudden end, 
But its work is grandly done. 

Toil and cares of state are o'er; 

I'ain and struggle come no more. 
Rest thee by Lalce Erie. 

Nations weep about thy bier, 

Flowers are .sent by queenly hands; 

Bring the poor tlieir homage here. 
Come the great from many lands. 

Be thy grave our Mecca, hence, 

AVith its speechless eloquence; 
Best thee by Lake Erie. 

Winter snows will wrap thy mound, 
.Spring will sejul its wealth of bloom, 

Sunnner kiss the velvet ground, 
Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb: 

Iloine beside this inland sea. 

Where thou lov'dst in life to be: 
Best thee by Lalce Erie. 

Strong for riglit, in danger brave. 
Tender as witli woman's heart, 

Champion of the fettered slave, 
Of the people's life a part. 

To be loved is higliest fame; 

Garfield, an immortal name ! 

Rest thee by Lake Erie. 

All tliy gifted words shall be 
Treasured speech from age to age ; 

Thy heroic loyalty 

Be a counti-y's heritage; 

Mentor and tJiy precious ties 

Sacred in the nation's eyes. 

Rest thee by Lake Erie. 

From thy life and deatli shall come 

An ennobli'd, purer race, 
Honoring labor, Avife. and liome; 

More of cheer and Christian grace. 
Kindest, truest ! till that day 
When He rolls the stone away. 
Rest thee by Lake Erie. 



A. B. Boyle. 

WIDOWED. 

She did not sigh for death, nor make 
sad moan. 

Turning from smiles as one who 
solace fears, 

But filled with kindly deeds the wait- 
ing years ; 

Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived 
alone. 

And in her voice there thrilled an 
undertone 

That seemed to rise from soundless 
depths of tears; 

As, when the sea is calm, one some- 
times hears 

The long, low murmur of a storm, 
vmknown 

Within the sheltered haven where he 
stands. 

While tokens of a tempest overpast 

The changing tide brings to the 
shining sands; 

So on the surface of her life was cast. 

An ever-present shadow of the day. 

When love and joy went hand in 
hand away. 



Emily a. Braddock. 

^A' UNTHRIET. 

Browx bird, with a wisp in your 
mouth for your nest, 

Away! away! you have found your 
guest. 

Golden-ringed bee, tlirough the air- 
sea steer home. 

The freight of sweets that lured you 
to roam. 

O reapers! well may you sing, to 
hold 

Your arms brimful of the grain's 
bossed gold. 

But what to me'that ye all go by ? 

An untlirift, empty-handed, fare I, 

Yet I heard, as I passed, the noise 
of a rill; 

In my lieart of hearts, it is singing 
still, 



806 



BRINE. 



Blent with the wind's sough, the trill 

of a bird, 
A child's laugh and a gracious word, 
Pictures I saw limned everywhere, 
A light here and a shadow there — 
A cloud, a stream, a flower small; 
In my heart of hearts I have hid 

them all ; 
And some one, it may be, yet through 

me 
The songs shall hear and the pictures 

see. 
O brown bird, and bee, and reapers, 

go by! 
Richer than any of you am I. 



Mary D. Brine. 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

The woman was old and ragged and 
gray. 

And bent with the chill of the win- 
ter's day: 

The street was wet with a recent 

snow. 
And the woman's feet were aged and 

slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited 

long, 
Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her 

by, 

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious 
eye. 

Down the street with laughter and 

shout, 
Glad in the freedom of " school let 

out," 

Came tlie boys like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and 
deep. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their way. 



Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' 
feet 

Should crowd her down in the slip- 
pery street. 

At last came one of the merry troop — 
The gayest laddie of all the group : 

He paused beside her and whispered 

low. 
"I'll help you across if you wish to 

go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young 

arm 
She ijlaced, and so, without hurt or 

harm. 

He guided her trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were Arm and 
strong. 

Then back again to his friends he 
went, 

His young heart happy and well con- 
tent. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, 

you know. 
For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a 

hand 
To help my mother, you understand. 

If ever she's poor and old and gray. 
When her own dear boy is far 
away." 

And "somebody's mother" bowed 

low her head 
In her home that night, and the 

prayer she said 

Was, "God be kind to the noble 

boy 
Who is somebody's son and pride and 

joy." 



B r CHAN A X — B UNNEB. 



807 



Robert Buchanan. 

n v/xn. 

" O BAIRN, when I am dead, 
How shall ye keep f rae harm ? 

What hand will gie ye breatl ? 
What lire will keep ye Mann ? 

How shall ye dwell on earth awa' fra 
me !" 
" O mither, dinna dee! "' 

" O bairn, by night or day 

I hear nae sounds ava% 
But voices of winds that blaw, 

And the voices of ghaists that say, 
Come awa' ! come awa' ! 
The Lord that made the wind and 
made the sea. 

Is hard on my bairn and me. 
And I melt in his breath like snaw." 

" O mither, dinna dee! " 

" O bairn, it is bvit closing up the een, 
And lying down never to rise again. 
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I 
seen, — 
There is nae pain ! 
I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken 
why; 
My summer has gone by. 
And sweet were sleep, but for the 
sake o' thee." 
" O mither, dinna dee!" 



[From Faces on the IVall.] 
TO TlilFLERS. 

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, 

oh. far 
Be your thin monotone, your brows 

flower-crowned, 
Your backward-looking faces; for ye 

mar 
The pregnant time with silly sooth 

of sound. 
With flowers around the feverish 

temples bound. 
And withering in the close air of the 

feast. 
Take all the summer pleasures ye 

have found. 



While Circe-charmed ye turn to bird 

and beast. 
Meantime 1 sit apart, a lonely wight 
On this bare rock amid this litful 

sea. 
And in the wind and rain I try to 

light 
A little lamp that may a beacon be. 
Whereby poor ship-folk, driving 

through the night, 
May gain the ocean-course, and think 

of me ! 



H. C. BUNNER. 

LOXGFELLOW. 

Poet, whose sunny span of fruitful 
years 
Outreaches earth, whose voice 
within our ears 
Grows silent — shall we mourn for 
thee ? Our sigh 
Is April's breath, our grief is April's 
tears. 

If this be dying, fair it is to die: 
Even as a garment weariness lavs 

by, 

Thou layest down life, to pass as time 
hath passed. 
From wintry rigors to a springtime 
sky. 

Are there tears left to give thee at 

the last, 
Poet of spirits crushed and hearts 

downcast. 
Loved of worn women who when 

work is done 
Weep o'er thy jxige in twilights 

fading fast ? 

Oh, tender-toned and tender- 
hearted one. 

We give thee to the season new 
begun ! 
Lay thy white head within the arms 
of spring — 

Thy song hadall her shower and 
all her sun. 




Nay, let us not such sorrowful 

tribute bring 
Now that thy lark-like soul hatli 

taken -wing: 
A grateful memory fills and more 

endears 
The silence when a bird hath 

ceased to sing. 



TO A DEAD WOMAN. 

Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at 
life's end, 
I have set on the face of Death in 
trust for thee. 
Through long years, keep it fresh on 
thy lips, O friend! 
At the gate of silence, give it back 
to me. 



in WIS RUSSELL. 

Died in Xew Orleans, Dec, ISTS). 

Small was thy share of all this 
world's delight, 
And scant thy poet's crown of flow- 
ers of praise ; 
Yet ever catches quaint of quaint 
old days 
Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy 

spirit bright : 
Even as to lips, the winds of winter 
bite, 
Some outcast Avanderer sets his flute 

and plays 
Till at his feet blossom the icy 
ways. 
And from the snowdrift's bitter 
wasting white 
He hears the uprising carol of the 
lark, 
Soaring from clover seas with 
summer ripe — 
While freeze upon his cheek 
glad, foolish tears. 
Ah ! let us hope that somewhere in 
thy dark, 
Herrick's full note, and Suck- 
ling's pleasant pipe 
Are sounding still their solace 
in thine ears. 



A WOMAS'S WAY. 



She might have known it in the 
earlier spring. 
That all my heart with vague desire 
was stirred ; 
And, ere the summer winds had taken 
wing. 
I told her; but she smiled and said 
no word. 

The autumn's eager hand his red gold 
grasped. 
And she was silent; till from skies 
grown drear 
Fell soft one fine, first snoAv-flake, antl 
she clasped 
My neck, and cried, "Love, we 
have lost a year!" 



Thomas Burbidge. 

AT DIVINE DISPOSAL. 

Oil, leave thyself to God! and if, 

indeed, 
'Tis given thee to perform so vast a 

task. 
Think not at all — think not, but 

kneel and ask. 
O friend, by thought was never crea- 
ture freed 
From any sin, from any mortal 

need : 
Be patient ! not by thought canst thou 

devise 
What course of life for thee is right 

and wise; 
It will be written up, and thou wilt 

read. 
Oft like a sudden pencil of rich 

light, 
Piercing the thickest umbrage of the 

wood. 
Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, 
The spirit's voice; oft, like the balmy 

flood 
Of mom, sm-prise the universal night 
With glory, and make all things 

sweet and good. 



EVENTIDE. 

Comes something down with even- 
tide 

Beside tlie sunset's golden bars, 
Beside tlie floating scents, beside 

The twinkling shadows of the stars. 

Upon the river's rippling face. 
Flash after flash the w liite 

Broke up in man}' a shallow place ; 
The rest was soft and bright. 

By chance my eye fell on the stream; 

How many a marvellous power. 
Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not 
dream! 

This knew 1 in that hour. 

For then my heart, so full of strife, 
No more was in me stirred ; 

My life was in the river's life. 
And I nor saw nor heard. 

I and the river, we were one : 
The shade beneath the bank, 

I felt it cool; the setting sun 
Into my spirit sank. 

A rushing thing in power serene 

I was ; the mystery 
I felt of having ever been 

And being still to be. 

Was it a moment or an hour ? 

I knew not ; but I mourned 
When from that realm of awful power, 

I to these fields returned. 



William Henry Burleigh. 

THE HA I! VES T- CA LL. 

Abide not in the land of dreams, 
O man, however fair it setMus, 
Where dro\vsy airs thy powers repress 
In languors of sweet idleness. 

Nor linger in the misty past. 
Entranced in visions vague and vast ; 
But with clear eye the present scan, 
And hear the call of God to man. 



That call, though many-voiced, is 

one. 
With mighty meanings in each tone; 
Through sob and laughter, shriek and 

prayer, 
Its summons meets thee everywhere. 

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, 
Forgetful of thy Lord's commands; 
From duty's claims no life is free, 
Behold, to-day hath need of thee. 

Look up ! the wide extended plain 
Is billowy with its ripened grain; 
And in the siunmer winds, are rolled 
Its waves of emerald and gold. 

Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay 
The work that calls for thee to-day; 
To-morrow, if it come, will bear 
Its own demands of toil and care. 

The present hour allots thy task ! 

For ijresent strength and patience 
ask. 

And trust His love whose sure sup- 
plies 

Meet all thy needs as they arise. 

Lo! the broad fields with harvest 

white. 
Thy hands to sti-enuous toil invite: 
And he who labors and believes, 
i Shall reap reward of ample sheaves. 

Up! for the time is short; and soon 
The morning sun will climb to noon. 
Up! ere the herds, with trampling 

feet 
Outrunning thine, shaH spoil the 

wheat. 

Willie the day ling«-s. do thy best! 
Full soon the night will bring its rest ; 
And, duty done7 that rest shall be 
Full of beatitudes to thee. 



BAIX. 



DASnixG in big drops on the narrow 
pane, 
king r 
mind. 



pane, 
A.nd makinsf mournful music for the 



810 



CHATTERTON— CHAUCEM. 



While plays his interlude the wizard 

wind, 
I hear tlie ringing of the frequent 

rain : 
How doth its dreamy tone the spirit 

kill, 
liringing a sweet forgetfulness of 

pain, 
Willie busy thought calls up the past 

again. 
And lingers mid the pure and beau- 
tiful 
Visions of early childhood! Sunny 

faces 
Meet us with looks of love, and in 

the moans 
Of the faint wind we hear familiar 

tones, 
And tread again in old familiar 

places! 
Such is thy power, O rain ! the heart 

to bless, 
Wiling the soul away from its own 

wretchedness. 



Thomas Chatterton. 

OiV RESIGXA TION. 

() God, whose thunder shakes the 
sky, 

Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
To Thee, my only rock, I fly. 

Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 

The mystic mazes of Thy will. 
The shadows of celestial light, 

Are past the powers of human skill. 
But what the Eternal acts, is right. 

Oh. teach me in the trying hour, 
W'lien anguish swells the dewy 
tear, 

'I'o still my sorrows, own thy power. 
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but Thee, 
Encroaching, sought a boundless 
sway, 

Omniscience could the danger see. 
And mercy look the cause away. 



Then why, my soul, dost thou com- 
plain ? 
AVhy drooping, seek the dark re- 
cess '? 
Shake off the melancholy chain, 
For God created all to bless. 

But, ah ! my breast is hiunan still ; 

The rising sigh, the falling teai-. 
My languid vitals, feeble will. 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet. with fortitude resigned. 

ril thank the infliction of the blow. 
Forbid my sigh, compose my mind. 

Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night 
Which on my sinking spirit steals 

Will vanish at the morning light. 
Which God, my East, my bun, re- 
veals. 



Geoffrey Chaucer. 

THE PARSON. 

A GOOD man there was of religion, 
That was a poore panton of a town. 
But rich he was of holy thought and 

work ; 
He was also a learned man, a clerk. 
That Christes gospel truly woulde 

preach ; 
His parishens devoutly would he 

teach ; 
Benign he was, and wonder diligent. 
And in adversity full patient; 
And such he was yproved ofte 

sitlies; 
Full loth were him to cursen for his 

tithes ; 
But rather would he given out of 

doubt 
Unto his poor parishens about 
Of his off' ring, and eke of his sub- 
stance ; 
He could in little thing have suflS- 

sance : 
Wide was his parish, and houses far 

asunder. 



CHAUCER. 



811 



But he ne left nought for no rain nor 

thunder, 
In sickness and in mischief, to visit 
Tlie fartliest in liis parish nnicli and 

lite. 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a 

staff: 
This nohle 'nsample to his sheep he 

gaf. 
That first he wrought, and after- 
ward he taught. 
Out of the gospel he the wordes 

caught. 
And this figure lie added eke thereto, 
That, if gold ruste, what should iron 

do ? 
For, if a priest he foul on whom we 

trust. 
No wonder is a lewed man to rust ; 
For shame it is, that if a priest take 

keep 
To see a "fouled" shepherd and 

clean sheep: 
Well ought a priest ensample for to 

give 
By his cleanness how his sheep should 

live. 
He sette not his benefice to hire, 
And let his sheep accumbred in the 

mire. 
And ran unto London imto Saint 

Ponle's 
To seeken him a chantery for souls. 
Or with a brotherhood to bewitliold; 
But dwelt at home and kepte well his 

fold. 
So that the wolf ne made it not mis- 
carry ; 
lie was a shepherd and no mer- 
cenary ; 
As though he holy were and virtuous. 
He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
Ne of his speeche dangei-ous ne 

digue; 
But in his teaching discreet and 

benign. 
To drawen folk to heaven with faire- 

ness. 
By good ensample, was his business; 
But it were any person obstinate. 
What so he were of high or low 

estate. 
Him would he snibben sharply for 

the nones: 



A better priest I trow that no where 
none is. 

He waited after no pomp or rever- 
ence, 

Ne maked him no spiced conscience ; 

But Christes lore, and his apostles 
twelve 

He taught, but first he followed it 
himselve. 



GOOD COUXSEL. 

Fly fro the press, and dwell with 

soothfastnesse. 
SuflSce unto thy good though it be 

small. 
For hoard hath hate, and climbing 

fickleness. 
Press hath envy, and weal is blent 

over all. 
Savour no raoi'e than thee behove 

shall. 
Eede well thyself that other folke 

canst rede ; 
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no 

drede. 

Paine thee not each crooked to re- 
dress 
In trust of her that turneth as a 

ban- 
Great rest standeth in little busi- 

nesse, 
Beware also to spurne against an 

awl, 
Strive not as doth a crocke with a 

wall; 
Deeme thyself that demest others' 

deed ; 
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no 

drede. 

That thee is sent receive in buxom- 

nesse ; 
The wrastling of this world askelh a 

fall. 
Here is no home, here is but a wilder- 

nesse. 
Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of 

thy stall ! 
Locke up on high, and thanke God 

of all! 



812 



CHENEY— COOK. 



Waive tliy lusts, and let thy ghost 

tiiee lead ; 
And truth thee shall delivei', it is no 

drede. 



TO HIS EMPTY rURSE. 

To you, my purse, and to none other 

Avight 
Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, 
I am sorry now that ye be light, 
For, certes, ye now make me heavy 

chere. 
Me were as lefe laid upon a here, 
For which unto your mercy thus I 

crie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 

Now vouchsafe this day or it be 

night. 
That I of you the blissful sowne may 

here, 
Or see your color like the sunne 

bright. 
That of yelowness had never pere, 
Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, 
Queene of comfort and good com- 

panie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 

Now purse, that art to me my lives 

light, 
And saviour, as downe in this world 

here. 
Out of this towne helpe me by youi- 

might, 
Sitli that you woll not be my treasure, 
For I am shave as nere as any frere, 
But I pray unto your courtesie. 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 



John Vance Cheney. 

MA Y. 

When beeches brighten early May, 
And young grass shines along her 

Avay ; • 

When April willows meet the bi'eeze 
Like softest dawn among the trees: 



When smell of spring fills all the air. 
And meadows bloom, and blue-birds 

pair; 
When love first laves her sunny head 
Over the brook and lily-bed; 
Nothing of somid or sight to grieve 
From cheering morn to quiet eve, 
My heart will not. for all its ease, 
Forget the days to follow these. 
This loveliness shall be betrayed. 
This happiest of music played 
From field to field, by stream and 

bough. 
Shall silent be, as tuneful now; 
The silver launch of thistles sail 
Adown the solitary vale ; 
The blue solicitude of sky 
Bent over beauty doomed to die. 
With nightly mist shall witness here 
The yielded glory of the year. 



Clarence Cook. 

ON ONE WHO DIED IX MA Y. 
(J. H. E., May 3, 1870). 

Why, Death, what dost thou here. 

This time o'year ? 
Peach-blow and apple-blossom ; 
Clouds, white as my love's bosom; 
Warm wind o' the west 
Cradling the robin's nest; 
Yoimg meadows hasting their green 

laps to fill 
With golden dandelion and daffodil ; 
These are fit sights for spring; 
But, oh, tlioii hateful thing," 
What dost thou here? 

Why, Death, what dost thou here. 

This time o' year ? 
Fair, at the old oak's knee, 
The young anemone; 
Fair, the plash places set 
With dog-tooth violet; 

The first sloop-sail. 

The shad-flower pale; 
Sweet are all sights, 
Sweet ai'e all sounds of spring; 
But tho;i, thou nglv thing. 

What dost' thou here? 



COOLIDOE. 



813 



Dark Death let fall a tear. 

Why am I here ? 
Oh, heart vnigrateful I Will man 

never know 
I am his friend, nor ever was his foe ? 
Whose the sweet season, if it be not 

mine "? 
Mine, not the bobolink's, that song 

divine. 
Chasing the shadows o'er the flying 

wheat ! 
"Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds 

so sweet. 
AVHiose passionate heart burns in this 

flaming rose 
But his, whose passionate heart long 

since lay still '? 
Whose wan hope pales this snow- 
like lily tall. 

Beside the garden wall, 
But his, whose radiant eyes and lily 

grace, 
.Sleep in the grave that crowns yon 

tufted hill ? 

All hope, all memory. 
Have their deep springs in me; 
And love, that else might fade, 
By me immortal made. 
Spurns at the grave, leaps to the wel- 
coming skies. 
And burns a steadfast star to stead- 
fast eyes. 



Susan Coolidge 

(SARAH WOOLSEY). 

ONE LESSER JOY. 

What is the dearest happiness of 
heaven ? 
Ah , who shall say ! 
So many wonders, and so wondrous 

fair. 
Await the soul who, just arrived 
there 
In trance of safety, sheltered and for- 
given, 
Opens glad eyes to front the eter- 
nal day: 



Relief from earth's corroding discon- 
tent. 
Relief from pain, 
The satisfaction of perplexing 

fears, 
Full compensation for the long, 
hard years. 
Full understanding of the Lord's in- 
tent, 
The things that were so ijuzzling 
made quite plain: 

And all astonished joy as, to the spot. 
From further skies, 
Crowd our beloved with white 
winged feet. 

And voices than the chiming harps 
more sweet. 

Faces whose fairness we had half for- 
got, 
And outstretched hands, and wel- 
come in their eyes. 

Heart cannot image forth the endless 
store 

AVe may but guess. 
But this one lesser joy I hold my 

own : 
All shall be known in heaven ; at 
last be known 
The best and worst of me; the less 
the more. 
My own shall know — and shall not 
love me less. 

Oh, haunting shadowy dread which 
underlies 
All loving here! 
We inly shiver as we whisper 
low, 
"Oh, if they knew — if they could 

only know. 
Could see our naked souls without 
disguise — 
How they would shrink from us 
and pale with fear." 

The bitter thoughts we hold in leash 
within 
But do not kill ; 
The petty anger and the mean de- 
sire, 
The jealousy ^\hich burns — a 
smouldering Are — 



814 



COOLIDQE. 



The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin. 
The sordid wish which daunts the 
nobler will. 

We fight each day with foes we dare 
not name, 

We fight, we fall! 
Noiseless the conflict and unseen 

of men ; 
We rise, are beaten down, and rise 
again, 
And all the time we smile, we move 
the same. 
And even to dearest eyes draw close 
the veil; 

But in the blessed heavens these wars 
are past ; 
Disguise is o'er! 
With new anointed vision, face to 

face, 
We shall see all, and clasped in 
close embrace 
Shall watch the haunting shadow flee 
at last. 
And know as we are known, and 
fear no more. 



MinACLE. 

On ! not in strange portentous way 
Christ's miracles were wrought of 
old, 
The common thing, the common clay 
He touched and tinctured, and 
straightway 
It grew to glory manifold. 

The barley loaves were daily bread 
Kneaded and mixed with usual 
skill; 
\o care was given, no spell was said, 
IJut when the Lord had blessed, they 
fed 
The multitude upon the hill. 

The hemp was sown 'neath common 
sun, 

Watered by common dews and rain. 
Of which the fisher's nets were spim; 
Nothing was propliesied or done 

To mark it from the other srain. 



Coarse, brawny hands let down the 
net 
When the Lord spake and ordered 
so; 
They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet, 
Just as in other days, and set 
Their backs to labor, bending low ; 

But quivering, leaping from the lake 
The marvellous shining burdens 
rise 
Until the laden meshes break. 
And all amazed, no man spake 
But gazed with wonder in his eyes. 

So still, dear Lord, in every place 

Thou standest by the toiling folk, 
With love and pity in Thy face. 
And givest of Thy help and grace 
To those who meekly bear the yoke. 

Not by strange sudden change and 
spell, 
]5affling and darkening nature's 
face ; 
Thou takest the things we know so 

well 
And bulkiest on them Thy miracle — 
The heavenly on the common-place. 

The lives which seem so poor, so low, 
The hearts which are so cramped 
and dull, 
The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, 
Thou takest, touchest all, and lo! 
They blossom to the beautiful. 

We need not wait for thunder-peal 
Kesounding from a moimt of fire 
While round our daily paths we feel 
Thy sweet love and Thy power to heal 
Working in us Thy full desire. 



INFL UEXCE. 

Couched in the rocky lap of hills 
The lake's blue waters gleam. 

And thence in linked and measured 
rills 
Down to the valley stream. 

To rise again, led higher and higher, 

And slake the city's hot desire. 



Ilii^li as the lake's bright ripples shine 

iSo high the water goes ; 
But not a drop that air-drawn line 

Passes or overflows. 
Though man may strive and man 

may woo, 
The stream to its own law is true. 

Vainly the lonely tarn, its cup 
Holds to the feeding skies; 

Unless the source be lifted up. 
The streandets cannot rise. 

By law inexorably blent. 

Each is the other's measurement. 

Ah, lonely tarn! ah, striving rill! 

So yearn these souls of ours. 
And beat with sad and m-gent will 

Against the unheeding i)owers. 
In vain is longing, vain is force, 
No stream goes higher than its som'ce. 



Henry S, Cornwell 



THE SPIDEH. 

Spinner of the silken snare, 
Fell Arachne in your lair. 
Tell me, if your powers can tell 
How you do your work so well ? 

Weaving on in light and dark, 
Segment and concentric arc. 
Lace-like, gossamer designs. 
Strict to geometric lines ; 

Perfect to the utmost part, 
Occult, exquisite of art, — 
How are all these wonders bred 
In your atom of a head ? 

Propositions here involved 
Wit of man has never solved; 
Demonstrations hard to find 
A.re as crystal to your mind. 

How in deepest dungeon-glooms. 
Do your Lilliputian looms 
Work such miracles as these, — 
Faultless, fairy filigrees ? 



Careless flies that hither flit 
Come to die ; but there you sit. 
Feeling with your lingers fine 
Each vibrating, pulse-like line; 

Eager to anticipate 
Hourly messages of fate, — 
Fimeral telegrams that say 
Here is feasting one more day? 

Spider, only He can tell 
How you do your work so well, 
Who in life's mysterious ways 
Knows the method of the maze. 



THK U/iAGO^'-FLr. 

When brooks of summer shallow 

run. 
And fiercely glows the ardent sun ; 
Where waves the blue-flag tall and 

dank. 
And water-weeds grow rich and 

rank, 
The flaunting dragon-fly is seen, 
A winged spindle, gold and green. 

Born of the morning mists and 

dews, 
He darts — a flash of jewelled hues — 
Athwart the waterfall, and flings, 
P^rom his twice-duplicate wet wings, 
Diamonds and sapphires such as 

gleam 
And vanish in a bridesmaid's dream! 

Sail not, O dragon-fly. too near 
The lakelet's bosom, dark and clear! 
For, lurking in its deptlis below. 
The hungry trout, thy fatal foe. 
Doth watch to snatch thee, unaware. 
At once from life, and light and air! 

O brilliant fleck of siunmer's prime. 
Enjoy thy brief, fleet span of time! 
Full soon chill autumn's frosty 

breath 
Shall blow for thee a wind of death. 
And dash to dust thy gaudy sheen — 
Thy glittering mail of gold and 

green ! 



81G 



COXE — CRASHA W. 



Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 

WATCHWORDS. 

We are living — we are dwelling 
In a grand and awful time ; 

In an age, on ages telling, 
To be living — is sublime. 

Hark ! the waking np of nations, 
Gog and Magog to the fray : 

Hark! what soundeth, is creation's 
Groaning for its latter day. 

Hark ! the onset ! will you fold yom- 
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock ? 

Up, oh, up ! for, dro^\•sy soldier. 
Worlds are charging to the shock. 

Worlds are charging — heaven be- 
holding! 
You have but an hour to fight: 
Xow, the blazoned cross unfolding, 
• On — right onward, for the right! 

What! still hug your dreamy slum- 
bers ? 
'Tis no time for idling play, 
Wreaths, and dance, and poet-num- 
bers. 
Flout them, we must work to-day ! 

Oh! let all the soid within you 
For the truth's sake go abroad! 

Strike ! let every nerve and sinew 
Tell on ages — tell for God! 



Richard Crashaw. 

LIXES OX A PltAYEn-BOOK SEXT 
TO MRS. n. 

Lo! here a little volume, but large 
book, 
(Fear it not, sweet. 
It is no hypocrite) 
Much larger in itself than in its look. 
It is, in one rich handful, heaven and 
all — 



Heaven's royal hosts encamp' d thus 

small ; 
To prove that true, schools used to 

tell, 
A thousand angels in one point can 

dwell. 

It is love's great artillery. 

Which here contracts itself, and 
comes to lie 

Close couched in yoiu' white bosom, 
and from thence, 

As from a snowy fortress of de- 
fence, 

Against the gliostly foe to take your 
part. 

And fortify the hold of your chaste 
heart; 

It is the armory of light : 

Let constant use but keep it bright. 
You'll find it yields 

To holy hands and hiunble hearts, 
More swords and shields 

Than sin hath snares or hell hath 
darts. 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 
That hold these weapons, and the 
eyes 

Those of turtles, chaste and true, 
Wakeful and wise. 

Here is a friend shall fight for 
you. 
Hold but this book before your 

heart. 
Let prayer alone to play his part. 
But oh ! the heart 
That studies this high art 
Must be a sure housekeeper, 
And yet no sleeper. 

Dear soul, be strong, 
Mercy will come ere long. 
And bring her bosom full of bless- 
ings — 
Flowers of nevei- fading graces. 
To make immortal dressings, 

For worthy souls whose wise 
embraces 
Store up themselves for Him who is 

alone 
The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's 
son. 



DE VERE — DODOE. 



817 



But if the noble Bridegroom, when 

He come, 
Shall find the wandering heart from 
home, 

Leaving her chaste abode 

To gad abroad 
Amongst the gay mates of the god of 
flies; 

To take her pleasure and to play, 

And keep the devil's holiday; 

To dance in the smishine of some 
smiling 

But beguiling 
Sphere of sweet and sugared lies ; 
Of all this hidden store 
Of blessings, and ten thousand more 

Doubtless he will unload 
Himself some other where; 

And pour abroad 
His precious sweets. 
On the fair soul whom first he meets. 

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! 

O ! happy, and thrice happy she. 
Dear silver- breasted dove, 

AVhoe'er she be, 
Whose early love. 
With winged vows. 
Makes haste to meet her morning 

spouse. 
And close with his immortal kisses! 
Happy soul ! who never misses 

To improve that precious hour; 
And every day 
Seize her sweet prey. 
All fresh and fragrant as he rises. 

Dropping with a balmy shower, 
A delicious dew of spices. 
Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful : she shall taste 

At once ten thousand paradises : 
She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 
The i-icli and rosal spring of those 

rare sweets. 
Which with a swelling bosom there 

she meets; 
Boundless and infinite, bottomless 

treasures 
Of pure inebriating pleasures. 
Happy soul ! she shall discover 

What joy, what bliss. 

How many heavens at once it is 
To have a God become her lover. 



Mary Ainge De Verb. 

A LOVE SONG. 

His love hath filled my life's fair cup 

Full to its crystal brim ; 
The dancing bubbles crowding up 

Are dreams of him, 

I work, and every thread I draw 

Sets in a thought, — 
The letter of I^ove's tender law 

In patience wrought. 

I serve his meals, — the fruit and 
bread 

Are sound and sweet : 
But that invisible feast I spread 

For gods w^ere meet ! 

I pray for him. All else I do 

Fades far away 
Before the thrill that smites me 
through, 

The while I pray : 

Ah, God, be good to him, my own. 

Who, on my breast. 
Sleeps, with soft dimpled hands out- 
thrown, 

A child at rest! 



Mary B. Dodge. 

LOSS. 

I LOST my treasures one by one, 
Those joys the world holds dear; 

Smiling, I said " To-morrow's sun 
Will bring us better cheer," 

For faith and love were one. Glad 
faith ! 

All loss is naught save loss of faith. 

My truant joys come trooping back, 
And troo]>ing friends no less; 

But tears fall fast to meet the lack 
Of dearer happiness. 

For faith and love are two. Sad 
faith ! 

'Tis loss indeed, the loss of faith. 



John Donne. 

THE FAREWELL. 

As virtuous men pass mildly away, 
And whisper to their souls to go; 
AVhilst some of tlieir sad friends do 

say, 
The breatli goes now — and some say, 

no; 

So let us melt and make no noiso, 
No tear-tloods, nor sigh-temiiests 

move; 
'Twere profanation of our joys 
To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th' earth brings harms and 

fears, 
Men reckon what it did, and meant: 
But trepidation of the spheres, 
Though greater far is innocent. 

Dull, suhlunarj^ lovers' love 
'(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
Absence, because it doth remove 
Those tilings which alimented it. 

But we're by love so much refined, 
Tliat ourselves know not what it is, 
Inter-assured of the mind. 
Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls, therefore (which are 

one), 
Though I nuist go, endure not yet 
A breach, but an expansion. 
Like gold to airy tliinuess beat. 

If they be two, they are two so 
As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no 

sliow 
To move, but doth, if th' other do. 

And though it in the centre sit, 
Y(>t when the other far doth roam, 
It leans, and hearkens after it. 
And grows erect as that cojues home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must 
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; 
Thy firnmess makes my circles just, 
-Vnd makes me end where I begvui. 



Henry Ripley Dorr. 

DOOR AND WINDOW. 

There is a room, a stately room, 
Now filled with light, now wrapped 
in gloom. 

There is a door, a steel-clad door. 
Lined with masses of hammered ore, 

Closed with a lock of Titan weight, 
Opened only by hand of Fate ! 

There is a window, broad and old, 
Barred with irons of massive mould ; 

Back from the window, closed and 

fast, 
Stretches the vista of the Past ; 

A lengthening vista, faint and dim. 
Reaching beyond the horizon's rim. 

Men may wait at the window-sill 
And listen, listen — but all is still. 

Men may wait till their hairs are 

Avhite, 
Through the hours of day and night ; 

Men may shower their tears like 

rain 
And mourn that they cannot pass 

again ; 

Over the pathway of the Past ; 

But travelled first, it is travelled last ! 

Turn Avith me to the iron door 
Many a mortal has stood before! 

Lift the latch ? It is fastened down ! 
The hinges are flecked with a rusty 
brown. 

Batter away at its massive plates! 
Hark! do you hear the mocking 
Fates ? 

'Tis only the echoes that go and 

come 
Like the measured beats of a muffled 

drum ! 



DYER. 



819 



Your hands are bleeding ? Then 

come away, 
Perhaps, at length, you have learned 

to-day 

That only when under the grass or 

snow 
We learn what mortals must die to 

know ; 

That only when we are still and 

cold 
The door swings wide on its hinges 

old! 



Sir Edward Dyer. 

MY MIXD TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

My mind to me a kingdom is ; 

.Such perfect joy tlierein I find 
As far exceeds all earthly bliss 

That God or Nature hath assigned ; 
Though much I want that most 

would have. 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay. 

I seek no more than may suffice. 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
Look, what I lack my mind sup- 
plies. 
Lo! tlius I triumph like a king! 
Content with that my mind doth 
bring. 

I see how plenty surfeits oft. 

And hasty climbers soonest fall; 
I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all. 
These get with toil, and keep with 

fear ; 
Such cares my mind could never 
bear. 

No princely pomp nor wealthy store. 
No force to win the victory. 

No wily Avit to salve a sore, 

No shape to win a lover's eye, — 

To none of these I yield as thrall ; 

For why, my mind de.spiseth all. 



Some have too much, yet still they 
crave ; 
I little have, yet seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much they 
have ; 
And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, 1 give : 
They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gain : 

No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
I brook that is another's bane. 

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly bliss; 

I weigh not Cra'sus' wealth a 
straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is : 

I fear not fortune's fatal law; 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beauty bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I M'ander not to seek for more : 
Hike the plain, I climb no hill; 

In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
And laugh at them that toil in vain 
To get what must be lost again. 

I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 

I feign not love where most I 
hate ; 
I break no sleep to win my will; 

I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 

The court nor cart I like nor loathe; 

Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
The golden mean betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 
This is my choice ; for why, I find 
No wealth is like a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect 
ease ; 
My conscience clear my chief de- 
fence; 
I never seek by bribes to please. 
Nor by desert to give offence. 
Thus do I live, thus will I die;' 
Would all did so as well as 1 ! 



820 



GALL A GHER — GA Y. 



William D. Gallagher. 

TWO APRILS. 

When last the maple bud was swell- 
ing? 
When last the crocus bloomed 
below, 
Thy heart to mine its love was telling; 
Thy soul with mine kept ebb and 
flow : 
Again the maple bud is swelling, 

Again the crocus blooms below : — 
In heaven thy heart its love is telling. 
But still our souls keep ebb aiicl 
flow. 

When last the April bloom was fling- 
ing 
Sweet odors on the air of spring. 
In forest aisles thy voice was ring- 
ing, 
Where thou didst with the red-bird 
sing. 
Again the April bloom is flinging 

Sweet odors on the air of spring. 
But now in heaven thy voice is ring- 
ing? 
Where thou dost with the angels 
sing. 



THE LAnORER. 



Stand 



•who 



up, erect! Thou hast the 
form 
And likeness of thy God! 
more '? 

A soul as dauntless mid the storm 
Of daily life, a heart as warm 
And pure as breast e'er wore. 

What then ? Thou art as true a man 
As moves the human mass among; 
As much a part of the great plan, 
As Avith creation's dawn began, 
As any of the throng. 

Who is thine enemy ? The high 

In station, or in wealth the chief ? 
The great, who coldly pass thee by, 
With proud step and averted eye ? 
Xay ! ruu-se not such belief. 



If true unto thyself thou wast. 

What were the proud one's scorn to 
thee ? 

A feather, which thou mightest cast 

Aside, as idly as the blast. 
The light leaf from the tree. 

No : — imcurbed passions, low desires, 

Absence of noble self-respect. 
Death, in the breast's consuming fires, 
To that high nature which aspires 
Forever, till thus checked ; 

These are thine enemies — thy worst; 

They chain thee to thy lonely lot: 
Thy labor and thy lot accursed. 
Oh ! stand erect, and from them burst, 

And longer suffer not. 

Thou art thyself thine enemy. 

The great! what better they than 
thou ? 
As theirs, is not thy will as free? 
Has God with equal favors thee 

Neglected to endow. 

True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but 
dust ! 
Nor place — uncertain as the wind ! 
But that thou hast, Avhich, with thy 

crust 
And water, may despise the lust 
Of both — a noble mind. 

With this, and passions under ban, 
True faith, and holy trust in God, 

Thou art the peer of any man. 

Look up, then, that thy little span 
Of life may be well trod. 



William Wheeler Gay, 

APOLLO DELVEDERE. 

SuPKEME among a race of gods he 
stands. 
His strong limbs strained and 
quivering with might; 
His heart exulting, as his foemen's 
bands 
Before the dreadful «gis, melt in 
flight. 



OOSSE. 



821 



So once bestrode on red Scamander's 
plain 
Breasting at Hector's side the storm 
of spears ; 
Perchance in dreams he shakes the 
shield again 
And, shouting, fills the Grecian 
host with fears. 

Far-darting god of Homer, dost thou 
dream 
That Time still wears a crown of 
sunny hair ? 
That dawn-faced Daphne sings by 
Peneus' stream, 
And Dian routs the roebuck from 
his lair ? 

• 

Know, shrineless god, that temples 
sink to dust ; 
Creeds moulder with the heart that 
gave them birth ; 
Time is a despot, and gods, even, 
nuist 
Bow to his will like mortals of the 
earth. 

Look close! the crowds that throng 
this Belvedere 
Are not gray-bearded elders laden 
well 
With costly gifts, from Athens sent 
to hear 
The fateful murmurs issue from thy 
cell. 

No longer now they tremble as they 
stand 
Before thy face, remembering 
Niobe; 
Nor reverence thee, but him whose 
mortal hand 
Gave thee the gift of immortality. 



Edmund W. Gosse, 

VILLANELLE. 

WouLDST thou not be content to die 
When low-lumg fruit is hardly 
clinging 
And golden autumn passes by ? 



If we could vanish, thou and 1 
While the last woodland bird is 
singing, 
Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 

Deep drifts of leaves in the forest lie. 
Red vintage that the frost is fling- 
ing, 
And golden autumn passes by. 

Beneath this delicate, rose-gray sky. 
While sunset bells are faintly ring- 
inc 
Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 

For Avintry webs of mist on high 
Out of the muffled earth are spring- 
ino- 

And golden autumn passes by. 

Oh, now, when pleasures fade and fly. 
And hope her southward flight "is 
winging, 
Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 

Lest winter come, with wailing cry, 

His cruel, icy bondage bringing, 
AVhen golden autumn hath passed by, 

And thou with many a tear and sigh. 
While Life her wasted hands is 
A\ringing, 
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
AVhen golden autumn hath passed by. 



SUNSHINE IN MARCH. 

Where are you, Sylvia, where ? 

For our own bird the woodpecker, is 
here. 

Calling on you with cheerful tap- 
pings loud ! 

The breathing heavens are full of 
liquid light; 

The dew is on the meadow like a 
cloud ; 

The earth is moving in her green 
delight — 

Her spiritual crocuses shoot through. 

And rathe hepaticas in rose and blue; 

But snow-drops that awaited you so 
long 

Died at the thrush's song. 



822 



ORAY. 



" Aflieu, adieu!" they said, 

" We saAY the skirts of glory fade; 

We were the hopeless lovers of the 

spring, 
Too young, as yet, for any love of 

ours ; 
She is harsh, not having heard the 

white-throats sing; 
She is cold, not knowing the tender 

April showers; 
Yet have we felt her, as the buried 

grain 
May feel the rustle of the luifallen 

rain; 
We have known her, as the star that 

sets too soon 
Bows to the unseen moon." 



David Gray. 

DIE DOU'X, O DISMAL DA}'. 

Die down, O dismal day, and let me 

live; 
And come, blue deeps, magnificently 

strewn 
With colored clouds, —large light, 

and fugitive, — 
By upper winds through pompous 

motions blown. 
Now it is death in life, — a vapor 

dense 
Creeps round my window till I cannot 

see 
The far snow-shining mountains and 

the glens 
Shagging the mountain-tops. O God ! 

make free 
This barren shackled earth, so deadly 

cold, — 
Breathe gently forth thy spring, till 

winter flies 
In rude amazement, fearful and yet 

bold, 
While she performs her customed 

charities; 
I weigh the loaded hours till life is 

bare, — 
O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, 

and sweet air! 



IF IT MUST BE. 

If it must be — if it must be, O 
God! 

That I die young and make no further 
moans; 

That underneath the unrespective 
sod. 

In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones 

Shall crumble soon ; — then give me 
strength to bear 

The last convulsive throe of too 
sweet breath ! 

I tremble from the edge of life, to 
dare 

The dark and fatal leap, having no 
faith, 

No gloriou^yearning for the Apoc- 
alypse; 

But like a child that in the niglit- 
time cries 

For light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse 

Of knowledge and our human des- 
tinies — 

O peevish and uncertain soul ! obey 

The law of patience till the Day. 



WINTRY WEATHER. 

O WINTEIJ, wilt thou nevei', never 

go? 
O summer, but I weary foi- thy 

coming. 
Longing once more to hear the Luggie 

flow, 
And frugal bees laboriously hum- 
ming. 
Now the east wind diseases the 

infirm. 
And I must crouch in corners from 

rough weather. 
Sometimes a winter sunset is a 

charm — 
When the fired clouds compacted, 

burn together. 
And the large sun dips red behind the 

hills. 
I, from my window can behold this 

pleasure; 
And the eternal moon what time she 

fills 
Her orb -with argent, treading a soft 

measure, 



GBA Y — HA VERGAL. 



828 



With queenly motions of a bridal 


His eye is like a clear 


mood, 




Keen flame that searches thi-ough 


Through the wide spaces of infini- 


me; I must drop 


tude. 




Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his 
sphere ; 
To mine he cannot stoop. 

I win not my desire. 


Ellis Gray. 




And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo ! 
A thousand flickering darts ami 


SUNSHINE. 




tongues of fire 
Around me spread and glow ; 


I SAT in a darkened chamber, 






Near by sang a tiny bird ; 




All rayed and crowned, I miss 


Through all my deep pain and 


sad- 


No queenly state until the summer 


ness, 




wane. 


A wonderful song I heard. 




The hours flit by ; none knoweth of 
my bliss, 


The birdling bright sang in the 
light 
From out of a golden throat; 


sun- 


And none has guessed my pain ; 




I follow one alone, 


The song of love he was singing 




r track the shadow of his steps, I 


Grew sweeter with every note. 




grow 
Most like to him I love. 


I opened my casement wider 




Of all that shines below. 


To welcome the song I heard ; 






straight into my waiting bosom 


rd. 




Flew simshine and song and b 




No longer I now am sighing; 




Frances Ridley Havergal. 


The reason canst thou divine ? 






The birdling with me abideth, 




A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 


And sunshine and song are mine. 








AtTTOBiOGRAPHY! So you Say, 






So do I Ri>t believe! 
For no men or women that live to- 










day, 






Be they as good or as bad as they 


Dora Greenwell 




may, 
Ever would dare to leave 


THE SUNFLOWER. 




In faintest pencil or boldest inlc. 
All they truly and really think: 


Till the slow daylight pale, 




What they have said and what they 


A willing slave, fast bound to 


one 


have done. 


above, 




What they have lived and what they 


I wait; he seems to speed, 


and 


have felt. 


change, and fail ; 




Under the stars or under the sun. 


I know he will not move. 




At the touch of a pen the dew- 
drops melt, 


I lift my golden orb 




And the jewels are lost in the grass. 


To his, unsmitten when the roses 


die. 


Though you count tlie blades as 


And in my broad and burning 


disk 


you pass. 


absorb 




At the touch of a pen the lightninr; 


The splendors of his eye. 




is fixed, 



824 



HAVERGAL. 



An innocent streak on a broken 

cloud ; 
And the thunder that pealed so 
fierce and loud, 
With musical echo is softly mixed. 
Autobiography ? No ! 
It never was written yet, I trow. 
Grant that they try ! 
Still they must fail ! 
Words are too pale. 
For the fervor and glow of the lava- 
flow. 

Can they paint the Hash of an 

eye? 
How much less the flash of a heart. 
Or its delicate ripple and glimmer 

and gleam, 
Swift and sparkling, suildenly dark- 
ling. 
Crimson and gold tints, exquisite 

soul-tints. 
Changing like dawn-flush touching 

a dream ! 
Where is the art 
That shall give the play of blending 

lights 
From the porphyry rock on the 

pool below ? 
Or the bird-shadow traced on the 

sunlit heights 
Of golden rose and snow ? 

You say 'tis a fact that the books 

exist. 
Printed and published in Mudie's 
list, 
Some in two volumes, and some in 
one — 
Autobiographies plenty. But look ! 
I will tell you what is done 
By the writers, conttdentially! 
They cut little pieces out of their 
lives 
And join them together, 
!\[aking them up as a readal)le book. 

And call it an autobiography, 
Though little enough of the life sur- 
vives. 

What if we went in the sweet May 

weather 
To a wood that 1 know which hangs 

on a hill. 



And reaches down to a tinkling 

brook, 
That sings the flowers to sleep at 

night. 
And calls them again with the earliest 

light. 
Under the delicate flush of green. 
Hardly shading the bank below, 
Pale anemones peep between 

The mossy stumps where the 
violets grow; 
Wide clouds of bluebells stretch 
away, 
And primrose constellations rise, — 

Turn where we may. 
Some new loveliness meets our 
eyes. 
The first white butterflies flit around. 
Bees are murnuuing close to the 
ground. 
The cuckoo's happy shout is heard. 

Hark again ! 
Was it echo, or was it bird ? 
All the air is full of song, 
A carolling chorus aroimd and above: 
From the wood-pigeon's call so soft 

and long, 
To merriest twitter and marvellous 

trill, 
Every one sings at his own sweet 

will. 
True to the key-note of joyous love. 

Well, it is lovely I is it not ? 
But Ave nuist not stay on the fairy 
si)ot. 
So wa gather a nosegay with care : 
A primrose here and a- bluebell 
there, 
And something that we have never 
seen. 
Probably therefore a specimen 
rare ; 
Stitch wort, with stem of transparent 
green. 
The white-veined woodsorrel, and 

a spray 
Of tender-leaved and budding May. 
We carry home the fragrant load. 
In a close, warm hand, by a dusty 

road ; 
The sun grows hotter every hour; 
Already the woodsorrel pines for the 
shade ; 



HAVER GAL. 



825 



We watch it fade, 
And throw away the fairy little 

flower ; 
We forgot that it eoiild not last an 

hour 
Away from the cool moss where it 

grows. 
Then the stitch worts di'oop and close ; 
There is notliing to show hut a tangle 

of green, 
For the white-rayed stars will no 

more be seen. 
Then the anemones, can they siu- 

vive ? 
Even now they are hardly alive. 
Ha! where is it, our unknown spray ? 

Dropped on the way ! 
Perhaps we shall never find one 

again. 
At last we come in with the few that 
are left. 
Of freshness and fragrance bereft; 
A sorry display. 
Now, do we say, 
" Here is the wood where we rambled 

to-day ? 
See, we have brought it to you; 
Believe us, indeed it is true. 
This is the wood ! " do we say ? 

So much for the bright and pleasant 

side. 
There is another. We did not bring 
All that was hidden under the wing 
Of the radiant plumageil sjidng. 

AVe never tried 
To spy, or watch, or away to bear. 
Much that was just as truly thei'e. 
What have we seen ? 
Hush, ah, hush! 
Curled and withered fern between. 
And dead leaves unc\er the living 

green. 
Thick and damp. A clammy feather, 
All that remains of a singing thrush 
Killed by a weasel long ago. 
In the hungry winter weather. 
Nettles in unfriendly row. 
And last year's brambles, sharp and 

brown. 
Grimly guarding a hawthorn crown. 
A pale leaf trying to reach the light 
By a long weak stem, but smothered 

down. 



Dying in darkness, with none to see. 
The rotting trunk of a willow tree. 
Leafless, ready to fall from the bank ; 
A poisonous fungus, cold and white. 
And a hemlock growing strong and 

rank. 
A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain. 
Where a wounded hare has escaped 

the snare. 
Only i)erhaps to be caught again. 
No specimens we bring of these. 
Lest they should disturb our ease, 
And spoil the story of the May, 
And make you think our holiday 
Was far less pleasant than we say. 

All no! We write our lives indeed. 
But in a cipher none can read. 
Except the author. He may pore 
The life-accunudating lore 

For evermore. 
And find the records strange and 

true. 
Bring wisdom old and new ; 
But tliough he break the seal. 
No power has he to give the key; 
No license to reveal. 
We wait the all-declaring day. 
When love shall know as it is 
known. 
Till then, the secrets of our lives are 
ours and God's alone. 



SONG FROM " nrOHT." 

Light after darkness, 

Gain after loss. 
Strength after suffering, 

Crown after cross. 
Sweet after bitter. 

Song after sigh. 
Home after wandering, 

Praise after cry. 

Sheaves after sowing. 

Sun after rain, 
Sigh after mystery, 

Peace after pain. 
Joy after sorrow, 

Calm after blast, 
Rest after weariness, 

Sweet rest at last. 



Xear after distant, 

Gleam after gloom, 
Love after loneliness, 

Life after tomb. 
After long agony. 

Rapture of bliss! 
Binlit was the pathway 

Leading to this ! 



FliOm "MAKING POETUr:' 

'Tis not stringing rhymes together 

In a pleasant true accord ; 
Not the music of the metre. 
Not the happy fancies, sweeter 
Than a flower-bell, honey-stored. 

'T is the essence of existence, 

Rarely rising to the light; 
And the songs of echo longest. 
Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest. 

With your life-blood you will write. 

With yotn- life-blood. None will 
know it. 

You will never tfll them how. 
Smile! and they will never guess it: 
Laugh! and you will not confess it 

By your paler cheek and brow. 

There must be the tightest tension 

Ere the tone be full and true ; 
Shallow lakelets of emotion 
Are not like the spirit-ocean. 
Which reflects the purest blue. 

Every lesson you shall utter. 

If the charge indeed be yours. 

First is gained by earnest learning. 

Carved in letters deep and burning 

On a heart that long endures. 

Day by day that wondrous tablet 
Your life-poem shall receive. 

By the hand of .Toy or Sorrow ; 

But tlie pen can never borrow 
Half the records that they leave. 

You will only give a transcript 
Of a life-line here and there. 
Only just a spray-wreath springing 
From the hidden depths, and flinging 
Broken rainbows on the air. 



Still, if you but copy truly. 

'T will be poetry indeed, 
Echoing many a heart's vibration; 
Rather love than admiration 

Earning as your priceless meed. 



THE COL DE BALM. 

Sunshine and silence on tlie Col de 
Balm! 
I stood above the mists, above the 

rush 
Of all the torrents, when one mar- 
vellous hush 

Filled God's great moimtain temple, 
vast and calm. 

With hallelujah light, as seen through 
silent psalm: — 

Crossed Avith one discord, only one. 

For love 
Cried out, and would be heard. 

"If ye were here, 
O friends, so far away and yet so 

near. 
Then were the anthem perfect!" 

And the cry 
Threaded the concords of that Alpine 

harmony. 

Not vain the same fond cry if first I 

stand 
Upon the mountain of our God, and 

long. 
Even in the gloiy and with His 

new song 
Upon my lips, that you should come 

and share 
The bliss of heaven, imperfect still 

till all are there. 

Dear ones ! shall it be mine to watch 
you come 
Up from the shadows and the val- 
ley mist. 
To tread the jacinth and the ame- 
thyst; 

To rest and sing upon the stormless 
height, 

In the deep calm of love and ever- 
lasting light ? 



HAYNE — IIILLARD. 



^'11 



Paul Hamilton Hayne. 

LYRIC OF ACTIOX. 

'Tis the part of a coward to brood 
O'er the past that is withered and 
dead : 
What though the heart's roses are 
aslies and dust ? 
What though the heart's music be 

fled? 
Still shine the grand heavens o'er- 
head, 
Whence the voice of an angel thrills 

clear on the soul, 
" Gird about thee thine armor, press 
on to the goal! " 

If the faults or the crimes of thy 
youth 
Are a burden too heavy to bear, 
What hope can rebloom on the deso- 
late waste 
Of a jealous and craven despair ? 
Down! down with the fetters of 
fear ! 
In the strength of thy valor and man- 
hood arise. 
With the faith that illumes and the 
will that defies. 

Too late! through God's infinite 
world, 
From His throne to life's nether- 
most fires. 
Too late is a phantom that flies at 
the dawn 
Of the soul that repents and as- 
pires. 
If pure thou hast made thy de- 
sires, 
There's no height the strong M'ings 

of innnortals may gain 
Which in striving to reach, thou shalt 
strive for in vain. 

Then up to the contest with fate. 
Unbound by the past which is 
dead! 
What though the heart's roses are 
ashes and dust ? 
What though the heart's music be 
fled? 
ytill shine the fair heavens o'erhead; 



And sublime as the angel that rules 

in the sim 
Bqams the promise of peace when the 

conflict is won ! 



George Herbert. 

FliOM THE "ELIXIR." 

TEAf;ii me, my God and King, 

In all things Thee to see. 
And what I do in anything. 

To do it as for Thee. 

All may of Thee partake; 

Nothing can be so mean 
Which with this tincture, for Thy 
sake. 

Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant with this clause 

Makes drudgery divine: 
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws. 

Makes that and the action fine. 



Aaron Hill. 

HOW TO DEAL WITH COMMON 
NATURES. 

TENDER-handed stroke a nettle, 
And it stings you for yoxn- pains ; 

Grasp it like a man of mettle. 
And it soft as silk remains. 

'Tis the same with common natures: 
Use them kindly, they rebel ; 

But be rough as nutmeg-graters. 
And the rogues obey you well. 



F. A, HiLLARD. 

THE POET'S PEN. 

I A M an idle reed ; 
I rustle in the whispering air; 

I bear my stalk and seetl 
Through spring-time's glow and sum- 
mer's glare. 



828 



HOPKINS. 



And in the fiercer strife 
Wliich winter brings to ine amain, 

Sapless, 1 waste my lite. 
And, murmuring at my fate, com- 
plain. 

I am a worthless reed ; 
No golden top have I for crown, 

No flower for beauty's meed. 
No wreath for poet's high renown. 

Hollow and gaunt, my wand 
hlirill whistles, bending in the gale; 

Leafless and sad I stand, 
And still neglected, still bewail. 

O foolish reed ! to wail ! 
A poet came, with downcast eyes. 

And, wandering through the dale. 
Saw thee and claimed thee for his 
prize. 

He plucked thee from the mire ; 
He pruned and made of thee a pen. 

And wrote in words of Are 
His flaming song to listening men ; 

Till thou, so lowly bred, 
Now wedded to a nobler state, 

Utt'rest such pieans overhead 
That angels listen at their gate. 



Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 

TEMPESTUOUS DEEPS. 

Passionate, stormy ocean. 

Spreading thine arms to me. 
The depths of my soul's emotion 

Surge with the surging sea: 
Waves and billows go o'er me. 

Give me thy strong right hand ! 
The throes of my heart's vain struggle 

I know thou wilt imderstand. 

Break with thy hidden anguish, 

Kestless and yearning main ! 
Echo my sighs; I languish. 

Moaning in secret pain. 
The heart I had trusted fails me. 

The hopes I would rest in, flee; 
"Woe upon woe assails me. 

Comfort me, answering sea ! 



Mightily tossed with tempest, 

Lashed into serried crest. 
Roaring and seething billows 

Give thee nor peace nor rest : 
Oh, to thy heaving bosom 

Take me, wild sobbing sea ! 
For the whole earth's groaning and 
travail 

Utters itself in thee. 



DECEMBER. 

Blow, northern winds! 
To bi'ace my fibres, knit my cords, 
To gird my soul, to fire my words, 
To do my work, — for 't is the 
Lord's, — 

To fashion minds. 

Come, tonic blasts ! 
Arouse my courage, stir my thought. 
Give nerve and spring, that as 1 ought 
I give my strength to what is wrought. 

While duty lasts. 

Glow, arctic light. 
And let my heart with burnished 

steel. 
That bright magnetic flame reveal 
Which kindles purpose, faith, and 
zeal 
For truth and right. 

Shine, winter skies ! 
That when each brave day's work is 

done, 
I wait in i^eace, from sun to sun, 
To meet unshamed, through victory 
won. 
Your starry eyes. 



[From Perxephonc] 
EARLY SUMMER. 

The chrysalid with rapture stirs; 
The A\ater-beetle feels more nigh 
His glory of the di-agon-fly. 

And nectar fills the flower-spurs. 

Down in the confidential green 
Of clover-fields the insects hum, 
AVhile myriad creatures pipe and 
drum. 

And live their busy life unseen. 



HOPKINS. 



829 



The flowers of the Indian corn 
Droop their fair feathers o'er the 

sheatli, 
And all their pollen grains bequeath 

That golden harvests may be born. 



[From Persephone.] 
LATE SUMMER. 

The summer-tide swells high and 
full; 

I sit within the waving grass; 

The scented breezes o'er me pass, 
The thistles shed their silky wool. 

The ox-eyed daisies hail the sun, 
And sprinkle all the acres bright 
With golden stars of radiant light 

Amid the feathery grasses dun. 

The plaintive brook reflects the glow 
Of rows of bleeding cardinal; 
The whippoorwill's sweet madrigal 

Breathes through the sunset soft and 
low. 

I see the dear Persephone 

Trailing her piu-ple robes more 
slow, 

Her lovely eyelids drooping low, 
And gazing pensive o'er the sea. 

The fringed gentians kiss her hand, 
The milkweed waves its soft adieus ; 
Theirtender words she must refuse, 

For dark steeds wait upon the strand. 



[From Persephone.'] 
AUTUMN. 

Ereavhile the sap has had its will, 
The bud has opened into leaf 
The grain is ripening for the sheaf, 

Demeter's arms have had their fill. 

The seed has dropped into the mould, 
The flower all its petals shed. 
The rattling stalksaredry and dead, 

Persephone is still and cold. 



For Nature's dream is all fulfilled. 
Her clinging robes she folds once 

more. 
And glides within her close-locked 
door, 
For all the wine of life is spilled. 



HYMN FROM ''MOTHERHOOD." 

BEAUTIFUL new life within my 

bosom, 
New life, love-born, more beautiful 
than day. 

1 tremble in thy sacred presence, 

knowing 
What holy miracle attends my 

way! 
My heart is hushed, I hear between 

its beating 
The angel of annunciation say, 
"Hail, blessed among women!" 

while I pray. 

O all-creative Love ! thy finger 
touches 
My leaping pulses to diviner heat. 
What am I. that thy thought of life 
should blossom 
In me, in me thy tide of life should 
beat ? 
Beat strong within me, God-tide, in 
high passion. 
With quickening spirit earth-born 

essence greet! 
Fountain of life! flow through me 
pure and sweet. 

O all-sustaining Love! come close 
beside me, — 
Me, so unworthy of this wondrous 
gift. 
Purge me, refine me, try me as by 
fire, 
Whiten me white as snow in gla- 
cier-rift, 
That neither spot, nor stain nor 

blemish darken 
These elements that now to being 
drift: 
Inspire, sustain me, all my soul 
uplift! 



830 



HUTCHINSON —JACKSON. 



O all-sufficient Love ! I am as 
nothing; 
Take me, thy way, most facile to 
thy need; 
Enraptured, let me feel thy spirit 

moulding 
The gei-m that thou hast made a 

living seed. 
And while the currents of my life are 
speeding 
This life immortal in its growth to 

feed. 
To one dear purpose, all my forces 
lead! 



Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. 



SEA-WAY. 

The tide slips up the silver sand, 

Dark night and rosy day ; 
It brings sea-treasures to the land. 

Then bears them all away. 
On mighty shores from east to west 
It wails, and gropes, and cannot 
rest. 

O tide, that still doth ebb and 
flow 
Through niglit to golden day: — 
Wit, learning, beauty, come and go. 

Thou giv'st — thou tak'st away. 
But sometime, on some gracious 

shore, 
Thou shalt lie still and ebb no more. 



ON THE nOAD. 

UosT know the way to Paradise ? 
Pray, tell me by thy grace. 

'• Any way thou canst devise 
That leads to my love's face — 
For that's his dwelling-place." 

How far is it to Paradise ? 
"Ah, that I cannot say; 

Time loiters and my heart it flies - 
A minute seems a day 
Whene'er I go that way." 



THE PRINCE. 

Septembek waves his golden-rod 
Along the lanes and hollows, 

And saunters round the sunny fields 
A-playing with the swallows. 

The corn has listened for his stei), 
The maples blush to greet him. 

And gay coquetting Sumach dons 
Her velvet cloak to meet him. 

Come to the hearth, O merry prince, 
With flaming knot and ember ; 

For all your ti'icks of frosty eves, 
We love your ways, September! 



AUTUMN SONG. 

Red leaf, gold leaf, 
Flutter down the wind: 
Life is brief, oh! life is Ijrief, 
But Mother Earth is kind; 
From her dear bosom ye shall spring 
To new blossoming. 

The red leaf, the gold leaf. 
They have had their way; 
Love is long if life be brief, — 

Life is but a day; 
And love from grief and death shall 
spring 
To new blossoming. 



Helen Jackson 
(II. II.). 

THE LAST WORDS. 

[The last words written by Dr. Holland, 
Oct. lull, 18S1, — referring to President 
Garfield: " By sympathy he drew all hearts 
to him."] I. 

We may not choose! Ah, if we 

might, how we 
Shotdd linger here, not ready to be 

dead, 
Till one more loving thing were 

looked, or said, — 
Till some dear child's estate of joy 

should be 
Complete, — or we triumphant, late, 

should see 



JACKSON. 



831 



Some great cause win for which our 
hearts had bled. — 

Some hope come true which all our 
lives had fed, — 

Some bitter soi-row fade away and flee, 

Which we, rebellious, had too bitter 
thought ; 

Or even, — so our human hearts 
would cling, 

If but they might, to this fair world 
inwrought 

With heavenly beauty in each small- 
est thing, 

We would refuse to die till we had 
sought 

One violet more, heard one more 
robin sing! 



We may not choose : but if we did 

foreknow 
The hour when we should pass from 

human sight, 
What words were tast that w^e should 

say, or write. 
Could we pray fate a sweeter boon 

to show 
Than bid our last words burn with 

loving glow 
Of heartfelt praise, to lift, and make 

more bright 
A great man's memory, set in clearer 

light ? 
Ah yes! Fate could one boon more 

sweet bestow : 
So frame those words that every 

heart which knew, 
Should sudden, awe-struck, weeping 

turn away. 
And cry: "His own hand his best 

wreath must lay ! 
Of his own life his own last words 

are true. 
So true, love's truth no truer thing 

can say, — 
" By sympathy, all hearts to him he 

drew. " 



MARCH. 



Month which the warring ancients 

strangely styled 
The month of war, — as if in their 

fierce ways 



AVere any month of j^eace! — in thy 

rough days, 
I find no war in nature, though the 

wild 
Winds clash and clang, and broken 

boughs are piled 
At feet of writhing trees. The violets 

raise 
Their heads without affright, or look 

of maze, 
And sleep through all the din, as 

sleeps a child. 
And he who watches well, will well 

discern 
Sweet expectation in each living 

thing. 
Like pregnant mother, the sweet 

earth doth yearn ; 
In secret joy makes ready for the 

spring; 
And hidden, sacred, in her breast 

doth bear 
Annunciation lilies for the year. 



JUL Y. 



Some flowers are withered and some 

joys have died; 
The garden reeks with an East Indian 

scent 
From beds where gillyflowers stand 

weak and spent; 
The white heat pales the skies from 

side to side ; 
At noonday all the living creatures 

hide; 
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, 

content. 
Like starry blooms on a new firma- 
ment. 
White lilies float and regally abide. 
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays 

shed; 
The lily does not feel their brazen 

glare; 
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to 

share 
Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, 

no dread; 
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face 

and head ; 
She drinks of living waters and keeps 

fair. 



832 



JENNISON. 



MY NASTUliTIUMS. 

Quaint blossom with the old fantas- 
tic name, 
By jester christened at some an- 
cient feast! 
How royally to-day among tlie least 
Considered herbs, it flings its spice 

and flame. 
How careless wears a velvet of the 

same 
Unfathomed red, which ceased 

when Titian ceased 
To paint it in the robes of doge and 

priest. 
Oh, long lost loyal red which never 

came 
Again to painter's palette — on my 

sight 
It flashes at this moment, trained 

and poured 
Thi'ough my nasturtiums in the 

morning light. 
Like great-souled kings to kingdoms 

full restored. 
They stand alone and draw them to 

their height, 
And shower me from their stintless 

golden hoard. 



Lucia W. Jennison 

(OWEN INNSLY). 

IN A LETTER. 

Titp:ue came a breath, out of a dis- 
tant time. 
An odor from neglected gardens 

where 
Unnumbered roses once perfumed 

the air 
Through summer days, in cliild- 

hood's bappy clime. 
There came the salt scent of the sea, 

the chime 
Of waves against the beaclies or the 

bare, 
ftaunt rocks; as to the mind, half 

unaware. 
Recur the words of some familiar 

rhyme. 



And as above the gardens and the 

sea 
The moon arises, and her silver light 
Touches the landscape with a deeper 

grace. 
So o'er the misty wraitlis of memory, 
Turning them into pictures clear 

and bright, 
Eose in a halo tlie beloved face. 



HEIt ROSES. 

Against her mouth she pressed the 

rose, and there, 
'Neath the caress of lips as soft and 

red 
As its own i)etals, quick the bright 

bud spread 
And oped, and flung its fragrance on 

the air. 
It ne'er again a bud's young grace 

can wear ? 
O love, regret it not! It gladly 

shed 
Its soul for thee, and though thou 

kiss it dead 
It does not murnuu' at a fate so 

fair. 
Thus, once, thou breath' dst on me, 

till every germ 
Of love and song "broke into raptu- 
rous flower, 
And sent a challenge upwards to the 

sky. 
What if too swift fruition set a 

term 
Too brief to all things ? I have lived 

my hour. 
And die contented since for thee I 

die. 



OUTllE-AfOnT. 

Suppose the dreaded messenger of 

death 
Should hasten steps that seem, 

thongh sure, so slow. 
And soon should whisper with his 

chilly breath: 
"Arise! thine hour has sounded, 

thou must go; 



JENNISON. 



833 



For they that earliest taste life's holi- 
est feast 

Must early fast, lest, grown too bold, 
they d are ■ 

Of tlieiu that follow after seize the 
share." 

Then, though my pulse's beat forever 

ceased, 
If where I slumbered thou shouldst 

chance to pass 
Thovigh grave-bound, I thy presence 

should discern. 
Heedless of coffin-lid and tangled 

grass. 
Upward to kiss thy feet my lips 

would yearn; 
And did one spark of love thy heart 

inflame. 
With the old rapture I should call 

tliv name. 



DEPENDENCE. 

What would life keep for me if 

thou shouldst go ? 
Beloved, give me answer; for my 

art 
Is pledged unto thy service, and my 

heart 
Apart from thee nor joy nor grace 

doth know. 
No arid desert, no wide waste of 

snow. 
Looks drearier to exiled ones who 

start 
On their forced journey than, 

shouldst thou depart, 
This fair green earth to my dead 

hope would show. 
And like a drowning man who strug- 
gling clings 
With stiffened fingers to the rope 

that saves. 
Thrown out to meet his deep need 

from the land. 
So to thy thought I hold when 

sorrow's wings 
Darken the sky, and 'mid the bitter- 
est waves 
Of fate am succored by thy friendly 

hand. 



AT SEA. 

What lies beyond the far horizon's 

rim ? 
Ah! could our ship but reach and 

anchor there. 
What wondrous scenes, what visions 

bright and fair 
Would meet the eyes that gazed 

across the brim! 
ijut though we crowd the canvass 

on and trim 
Our barque with skill, the proud 

waves seem to bear 
No nearer to that goal, and every- 
where 
Stretches an endless circle wide and 

dim, 
>So we do dream, treading the narrow 

path 
Of life, between the bounds of day 

and night. 
To-morrow turns this page so often 

conned. 
But when to-morrow cometh, lo! it 

hath 
The limits of to-day, and in its 

light 
Still lies far off the unknown heaven 

beyond. 

We sail the centre of a ceaseless 
round. 

Forever circled by the horizon's rim; 

And fondly deem that from that far- 
off brim 

Some sign will rise or some glad ti- 
dings sound. 

But no word comes, nor aught to 
break the bound 

Of sea and sky all day with distance 
dim. 

And vanished quite when darkness, 
chill and grim. 

About the deep her sable shroud has 
wound. 

So on the seas of life and time we 
drift. 

Within the circling limits of om- 
fate, 

Expectant ever of some solving 
breath. 

But no sound comes, no pitying hand 
doth lift 



834 



JOHNSON— JOYCE. 



The veil nor faith nor love can i^en- 

etrate. 
And to our dusk succeeds the dark 

of death. 



Robert U. Johnson. 

AY SOVEMnEU. 

Heke is the water-shed of all the 

year, 
Where by a thought's space, 

thoughts do start anear 
That fare most widely forth: some 

to the mouth 
Of Arctic rivers, some to the mellow 

South. 

The gaunt and wrinkled orchard 
shivers 'neath 

The blast, like Lear upon the English 
heath, 

And mossy boughs blow wild that, 
imdistressed. 

Another spring shall hide the cheer- 
ful nest. 

All things are nearer from this chilly 

crown, — 
The solitude, the white and huddliug 

town ; 
And next the russet fields, of harvest 

shorn. 
Shines the new wheat that freshens 

all the morn. 

From out the bursting milkweed, 

dry and gray, 
The silken argosies are launched 

away. 
To mount the gust, or drift from hill 

to hill 
And plant new colonies by road and 

rill. 

Ah, wife of mine, whose clinging 
hand I liold, 

Shrink you before the new, or at 
the old •? 

And those far eyes that hold the si- 
lence fast — 

Look they upon the Future, or the 
Past '' 



Robert Dwyer Joyce. 



KlLiOLEMAN CASTLE. 

KiLfOLEMAX Castle, an ancient and 
very picturesque ruin, once the residence 
of Spenser, lies on the shore of a small 
lake, about two miles to the west of iJone- 
raile, in the county of Cork. Jt belonged 
ouce to the Karls of Desmond, and was 
burned by their followers in 1.598. Spenser, 
who was hated by the Irish inconsequence 
of his stringent advices to the English 
about the management of the refractory 
chiefs and nunstrels, narrowly escaped 
with his life, and an infant child of his, 
unfortunately left behind, w'as burnt to 
death in the flames. 

No sound of life was coming 

From glen or tree or brake. 
Save the bittern's hollow booming 

Up from tlie reedy lake; 
The golden light of sunset 

Was swallowed in the deep, 
And the night came down with a 
sullen frown, 

On Houra's craggy steep. 

And Houra's hills are soundless: 

But hark, that trumpet blast! 
It tills the forest boimdless. 

Rings roimd the summits vast; 
'Tis answered by another 

From the crest of Corrin Mor, 
And hark again the pipe's wild strain 

By Bregoge's caverned shore! 

Oh. sweet at hush of even 

The trumpet's golden thrill; 
Grand 'neath the starry heaven 

The pibroch wild and shrill ; 
Yet all were pale with terror. 

The fearfid and the bold, 
Who heard its tone that twilight lone 

In the poet's frowning hold ! 

Well might their hearts be beating; 

For up the mountain pass, 
By lake and river meeting 

Came kern and galloglass. 
Breathing of vengeance deadly, 

Under the forest tree. 
To the wizard man who had cast the 
ban 

On the minstrels bold and free! 



They gave no word of warning, 

Kound still tliey came, and on. 
Door, wall, and ramparts scorning, 

They knew not he was gone! 
Gone fast and far that even, 

All seci'ctas the wind. 
His treasures all in that castle tall, 

And his infant son behind! 

All still that castle hoarest; 

Their pipes and horns were still, 
While gazed they through the forest, 

Up glen and northern hill; 
Till from the Brehou circle, 

On Corrin's crest of stone, 
A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre 

Up to the clouds was thrown. 

Then, with a mighty blazing, 

They answered — to the sky; 
It dazzled their own gazing, 

So bright it rolle<l and high; 
The castle of the poet — 

The jnan of endless fame — 
Soon hid its head in a mantle red 

Of fierce and rushing flame. 

Out burst the vassals, praying 

For mercy as they sped, 
" Where was their master staying, 

Where was the poet fled ? " 
But hark! that thrilling screaming, 

Over the crackling din,— 
'Tis the poet's child in its terror wild, 

The blazing tower within ! 

There was a M'arlike giant 

Amid the listening throng; 
He looked with face defiant 

On the flames so wild and strong; 
Then rushed into the castle. 

And up the rocky stair, 
But alas, alas ! he could not pass 

To the burning infant there ! 

The wall was tottering under, 

And the flame was whirring round, 
The wall Ment down in thunder, 

And dashed him to the ground; 
Up in the burning chaml)er 

Forever died that scream. 
And the fire sprang out with a wilder 
shout 

And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam! 



It glared o'er hill and hollow. 

Up many a rocky bar. 
From ancient Kilnamulla 

To Darra's Peak afar; 
Then it heaved into the darkness 

With a final roar amain, 
And sank in gloom with a whirring 
boom, 

And all was dark again ! 

Away sped the galloglasses 

And kerns, all still again, 
Through Houra's lonely passes, 

Wild, fierce, and reckless men. 
But such the Saxon made them, 

Poor sons of war and woe; 
So they venged their strife with flame 
and knife 

On his head long, long ago ! 



THE BANKS OF ANNER. 

l^ pm-ple robes old Sliavnamon 

Towers monarch of the mountains, 
The first to catch the smiles of dawn. 

With all his woods and fountains; 
His streams dance down by tower and 
town. 

But none since time began her, 
Met mortal sight so pure and bright 

As winding, wandering Anner. 

In hillside's gleam or woodland's 
gloom. 

O'er fairy height and hollow. 
Upon her banks gay flowerets bloom, 

Where'er her course I follow. 
And halls of pride hang o'er her 
tide. 

And gleaming bridges span her. 
As laughing gay, she winds away, 

The gentle, murmm-ing Anner. 

There gallant men, for freedom born. 

With friendly grasp will meet you; 
There lovely maids, as bright as 
morn. 

With sunny smiles will greet you; 
And there they strove to raise above. 

The Red, Green Ireland's banner, 
Thei'e yet its fold they'll see unrolled 

Upon the banks of Anner. 



'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms 
proud, 
True soldiers of our sireland. 
When freedom's wind blows strong 
and loud, 
And floats the flag of Ireland. 
Let tyrants quake, and doubly shake. 

Each traitor and trepanner, 
When once we raise our camp-fire's 
blaze 
Upon the banks of Anner. 

Oh, God be with the good old days, 

The days so light and airy. 
When to blithe friends I sang my lays 

In gallant Tipperary! 
When fair maids' sighs and witching 
eyes 

Made my young heart the planner 
Of castles rare, built in the air, 

Upon the banks of Anner. 

The morning sun may fail to show 

His light tlie earth illuming; 
Old tSliavnamon to blusli and glow 

In autumn's purple blooming; 
And shamrocks green no more be 
seen, 

And breezes cease to fan her. 
Ere I forget the friends I met 

Upon the banks of Anner ! 



Charles de Kay. 

FTJ^GERS. 

Who will tell me the secret, the cause 
For the life in her swift-flying 
hands ? 
How weaves she the shuttle with 
never a pause. 
With keys of the octave for 
strands ? 

Have they eyes, those soft fingers of 
her 
That they kiss in the darkness the 
keys, 
As in darkness the poets aver 

Lovers' lips will find lips by de- 
grees ? 



Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy 
dance. 
But who is the god that has given 
them soul ? 
When leanred they the spell other 
souls to entrance, 
When the heart, other hearts to 
control ? 

'Twas the noise of the waves at the 
prow, 
The musical lapse on the beaches, 
'Twas the surf in the night when the 
land-breezes blow, 
The song of the tide in the reaches : 

She has drawn their sweet influence 
home 
To a soul not yet clear but pro- 
found, 
Where it blows like the Persian sea- 
foam into pearls, 
Into pearls of melodious soimd. 



Henry King. 

FBOM THE "EXEQUY ON HIS 
WIFE." 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed. 

Never to be disquieted ! 

My last good night! Thou wilt not 

w^ake 
Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 
Till age, or grief, or sickness must 
Marry my body to that dust 
It so much loves, and tills the room 
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there ! I will not fail 
To meet thee in the hollow vale. 
And think not nnicli of my delay : 
I am already on the way. 
And follow "thee with all the speed 
Desire can make, or sorrow heed. 
Each minute is a short degree. 
And every hour a step towards thee. 

At night when I betake to rest, 
Next morn I rise nearer my nest 
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail. 
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy 
gale, 



LA rilROP — L ONOFELL W. 



837 



Thus from the sun my vessel steers 
And my day's compass downward 

bears ; 
Nor labor I to stem the tide 
Through wliich to thee I swiftly 

glide. 

'Tis time, with shame and grief I 

yield, 
Thou lilie the van first tak'st the 

field, 
And gotten liast tlie victory, • 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might 

crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But harlv! my pulse, lilce a soft 

drum 
Beats my approach, tells thee I come; 
And slowhowe'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of tliis bids me go on, 
And wait my dissolution 
AVith hope and comfort. Dear, for- 
give 
The crime, — I am content to live 
Divided, with but half a heart. 
Till we shall meet and never part. 



Phantom to-morrows, to outrun the 

past : 
For yet the tears of iinal, absolute 

ill 
And ruinous knowledge of my fate I 

shun. 
Even as the frail, instinctive weed 
Tries, through unending sliade, to 

reach at last 
A shining, mellowing, rapture-giving 

sun ; 
So in the deed of breathing joy's 

warm breath. 
Fain to succeed, 
I, too, in colorless longings, hope till 

death. 



Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 

[From C/osing Chords.] 
THE STIUVIXG OF HOPE. 

When I shall go 

Into the narrow house that leaves 

No room for wringing of the hands 

and hair. 
And feel the pressing of the walls 

which bear 
The heavy sod upon my heart, that 

grie\-es 
As the weird earth rolls on — 
Then I shall know 
"What is the power of destiny. But 

still. 
Still while my life, however sad, be 

mine, 
I war with memoiy, striving tu divine 



Henry W, Longfellow. 

PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 
"E venni dal martirio a questa pace." 

These words the poet heard in Para- 
dise, 
Uttered by one who, bravely dying 

here, 
In the true faith, was living in that 
sphere 
Where the celestial Cross of sacri- 
fice 
Spread its protecting arms athwart 
the skies; 
And, set thereon, like jewels crys- 
tal clear. 
The souls magnanimous, that 
knew not fear. 
Flashed their effulgence on his daz- 
zled eyes. 

Ah, me! how dark the discipline of 

pain, 
Were not the suffering followed by 

the sense 
Of infinite rest and infinite release ! 

This is our consolation; and again 
A great soul cries to us in our sus- 
pense : 

"I came from martyrdom unto this 
peace ! ' ' 



838 



LUNT — LYTTON. 



George Lunt. 

THE COMET. 

Yon car of fire, tliongli veiled by 
day, 

Along the field of gleaming blue, 
When twilight folded earth in gray, 

A world-wide wonder tlew. 

Duly, in turn, each orb of night 
From out the darkling concave 
broke ! 

Eve"s glowing herald swam in light 
And every star awoke. 

The Lyre re-strung its burning 
chords ; 
Streamed from the Cross its earliest 
ray; 
Then rose Altair, more sweet than 
words 
Or music's sold could say. 

They from old time, in course the 
same. 

Familiar set, familiar rise; 
But what art tliou, wilil lovely flame, 

Across the startled skies ? 

Mysterious yet as wlien it burst, 
Thi-ough the vast void of nature 
hurled, 
And shook their shrinking hearts at 
first. 
The fathers of the world ! 

No curious sage the scroll unseals. 
Vain quest for baffled science 
given ! 

Its orbit ages, while it wheels, 
The miracle of heaven! 

In nature's plan thy sphere unknown, 
Save that no sphere this order mars, 

Whose law could guide thy path alone 
In realms beyond the stars. 

God's minister! we know no more 
Of thee, thy frame, thy mission 
still, 
Than he who watched thy flight of 
yore 
On the Chaldean hill. 



Yet thus, transcendent from thy 
blaze 
Beams liglit to pierce this mortal 
clod ; 
Scarcely " the fool " on thee could 
gaze 
And say, " There is no God ! " 



Lord Lytton 

[Edward Bulwer]. 
is it all vanity? 



Life answers, "Xo! If ended here 
be life, 
Seize what the sense can give; it 
is thine own 
Disarm thee, Virtue! barren is thy 
strife ; 
Knowledge, thy torch let fall ! 

"Seek thy lost Psyche, yearning 
Love, no more! 
Love is but lust, if soul be only 
breath ; 
Who would put forth one billow from 
the shore 
If the great sea be Death? " 

But if the soul, that slow artificer. 
For ends its instincts rears from 
life hath striven, 
Feeling beneath its patient web-work 
stir 
Wings only freed in heaven, — 

Then, and but then, to toil is to be 
wise ; 
Solved is the riddle of the grand 
desire 
Which ever, ever for the distant 
sighs. 
And nuxst perforce aspire. 

Else then, my soul, take comfort from 
thy sorrow; 
Thou feel'st thy treasure when 
thou feel'st thy load; 
Life without thought, the day with- 
out tlu! morrow, 
God on the brute bestowed ; — 



LYTTON. 



839 



Longings obscure as for a native Of your vast empire flows in strength- 



clime. 



ening tides 



Fliglit from wliat is, to live in j Trade, tlie calm health of nations I 



what may be 



Sire. I know 



God gave tlie soul: — thy discontent ^ That men have called me cruel : — 



with time 
Proves thine eternity. 



I am not; — I am juf<t! I found 

France rent asunder, 
The rich men despots, and the poor 

banditti ; 

Sloth in the mart, and schism withhi 
{From Rk-hdieu.] the temple. 

JUSTICE, THE JlEGENEJiATIVE,^^^''''^^ festering to rebellion: and 
PO WEli. I weak laws 

Eotting away with rust in antique 



My liege, your anger can recall 

your trust, 
Annul my office, spoil me of my 

lands, 
Eifle my coffers ; but my name, — 

my deeds, 



slieaths. 

I have re-created France; and, from 
the ashes 

Of the old feudal and decrepit car- 
cass, 

Civilization, on her huninous wings 



Are royal in a land beyond your seep- Soars phoenix-lilve, to Jove! What 



Pass sentence on me, if you will ; 
from kings, 

Lo, I appeal to time! Be just, my 
liege. 

I found your kingdom rent witli her- 
esies, 



I was my art ? 

Genius, some say; — some, fortime; 

witchcraft, some. 
Not so; — my art was Justice! 



[From King Arthur.] 
And bristling with rebellion; — law-! C^^?^Z»OC, '^"^ BARD, TO THE 



less nobles 
And breadless serfs; England fo- 
menting discord, 
Austria, her clutch on your domin- 
ion; Spain 
Forging the prodigal gold of either 

Ind 
To armed thunderbolts. The arts 

lay dead ; 
Trade rotted in yoitr marts; your 

armies nuitlnous. 
Your treasury bankrupt. ^Voidd you 

now revoke 
Your trust, so be it! and I leave 

you, sole. 
Supremest monarch of the mightiest 

realm. 
From Ganges to the icebergs. Look 

without, — 
No foe not humbled I Look witliin, — 

the arts 
Quit for our schools, their old Hes- 

peridos. 
The golden Italy ! while throughout 

the veins 



CYMRIAKS. 

No Cymrian bard, by the primitive law, 
could bear weapons. 

Hai!K to the measured march ! — The 

Saxons come ! 
Tlie sound eartli; quails beneath the 

liollow tread ! 
Your fatliers ruslied upon the swords 

of Pome. 
And clindjed lier war-ships, when 

the Cajsar fled. 
The Saxons come ! wliy wait witliin 

tlie wall ? 
They scale the mountain: — let its 

torrents fall ! 

Mark, ye have SMords, and shields, 
and armor, ye! 
No mail defends the Cymrian 
child of Song; 
But where the warrior, there the 
bard sliall be ! 
All fields of glory to the bards be- 
long! 



840 



LYTTON. 



His realm extends wlierever godlike 
strife 

Spurns the base death, and wins im- 
mortal life. 

Unarmed he goes — his guard the 

shield of all, 
Where he bounds foremost on the 

Saxon spear! 
Unarmed he goes, that, falling, even 

his fall 
Shall bring no shame, and shall 

bequeath no fear! 
Does the song cease ? — avenge it by 

the deed. 
And make the sepulchre — a nation 

freed ! 



LORD LYTTON 

[Edward Robert Bulwer] 

(owex meredith). 

the chess-board. 

My little love, do you remember. 

Ere we were grown so sadly Avise, 
Those evenings in the bleak Decem- 
ber, 
Curtained warm ivora the snowy 

weatlier, 
When you and I played chess to- 
gether, 

Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 
Ah! still I see your soft white hand 

Hovering warm o'er (jueen and 
kniglit; 
Brave i)awns in valiant battle stand ; 
The double castles guai'd the wings; 
The bishop, bent on distant things, 

Moves sidling through the fight. 
Our fingers touch, our glances meet, 

And i'alter. falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek : your bosom sweet 
Is heaving; down the field, your 

queen 
Rides slow her soldiery all between, 

And checks me imaware. 
Ah me! the little battle's done, 
Dispersed is all its cliivalry ; 



Full many a move, since then, have 

we 
'Mid life's perplexing chequers made, 
And many a game with fortune 
played — 
What is it we have won ? 
This, this at least — if this alone — 
That never, never, never more. 
As in those old still nights of yore — 
Ere we Avere grown so sadly Avise — 
Can you and I shut out the skies, 
Shut out the Avorld and Avintry 
Aveather, 
And eyes exchanging warmth with 
eyes. 
Play chess as then we played together ! 



CHANGES. 

Whom first we love, you know, Ave 
seldom Aved. 
Time rules us all. And life indeed, 
is not 
The thing Ave planned it out ere hope 
is dead. 
And then, Ave women cannot choose 
our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is Iiard 
to bear: 
Much given away Avhich it Avere 
sweet to keep. 
God help us all! Avho need, indeed, 
Ilis care. 
And yet I knoAV, the Sheiiherd 
loA'es His sheep. 

My little boy begins to babble noAv 
Upon my knee his earliest infant 
prayer; 
He has his father's eager eyes.I knoAV ; 
And, they say too, his mother's 
sunny hair. 

Bvit when he sleeps and smiles upon 
my knee. 
And I can feel his light breath 
come and go, 
I think of one — Heaven help and 
pity me ! 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, 



LYTTON. 



841 



Who might have been — ah, what I 
dare not think ? 
We all are changed. God judges 
for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not 
shrink, 
And trust in Heaven humbly for 
the rest. 

But blame us women not, if some 
appear 
Too cold at times ; and some too gay 
and light. 
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes 
are hard to bear; 
Who knows the past ? and who can 
judge us right ? 

Ah, were we judged by what we might 
have been. 
And not by what we are, too apt to 
fall! 
My little child — he sleeps and smiles 
between 
These thoughts and me. In heaven 
we shall know all ! 



\_From Lucile.] 
LIFE A VICTOUY. 

A POWER hid in pathos; a fire veiled 

in cloud: 
Yet still burning outward : a branch 

which, though bowed 
By the bird in its passage, springs 

upward again: 
Through all symbols I search for her 

sweetness — in vain ! 
Judge her love by her life. For our 

life is but love 
In act. Pure was hers: and the 

dear God above, 
Who knows what his creatures have 

need of for life. 
And whose love includes all loves, 

through much patient strife 
Led her soul into peace. Love, 

though love may be given 
In vain, is yet lovely. Her own na- 
tive heaven 
More clearly she mirrored, as life's 

troubled dream 



Wore away; and love sighed into 

rest, like a stream 
That breaks its heart over wild rocks 

toward the shore 
Of the great sea which hushes it up 

evermore 
With its little wild wailing. Xo 

stream from its source 
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its 

course, 
But what some land is gladdened. 

No star ever rose 
And set, without influence some- 
where. Who knows 
What earth needs from earth's lowest 

creature ? No life 
Can be pure in its purpose and 

strong in its strife 
And all life not be purer and stronger 

thereby. 
The spirits of just men made perfect 

on high. 
The army of martyrs who stand by 

the throne 
And gaze into the face that makes 

glorious their own, 
Know this, surely, at last. Honest 

love, honest sorrow. 
Honest work for the day, honest 

hope for the morrow. 
Are these worth nothing more than 

tlie hand they make weary, 
The heart they have sadden'd, the 

life they leave dreary '? 
Hush! the sevenfold heavens to the 

voice of the Spirit 
Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all 

things inherit. 



[From T.iicU''.] 
THE UNFULFILLED. 

How blest should we be, have I often 

conceived. 
Had we really achieved what we 

nearly achieved ! 
We but catcii at the skirts of the 

thing we would be, 
And fall back on the lap of a false 

destiny. 
So it will be, so has been, since this 

world began ! 



842 



McKAY — MARLOWE. 



And the happiest, nohlest, and best 

part of man 
Is the part which lie never hath fully 

played ont : 
For the first and last word in life's 

volume is — Doubt. 
The face the most fair to our vision 

allowed 
Is the face we cncoujiter and lose in 

tli(i crowd ; 
The thought that most thrills our 

existence is one 
Which, before we can frame it in 

language, is gone. 



James I. McKay. 

A SUMMER MOBXING. 

Oh, the earth and the air! 

Honeysuckle and rose; 

Fir-ti'ees tapering high 

Into the deep repose 

Of the fleckless sky : 

Hills that climb and are strong; 

Basking, contented plain; 

Sunlight poured out along 

The sea of the grass like rain; 

Spice-bm-dened winds that rise, 

Whisper, wander and hush; 

And tlie carolling harmonies 

Of robin and quail and thrush! 
O God, Thy world is fair! 

And this but the place of His feet! 
I had cried, "Let me see! let me 

hear ! 
Show me the ways of Thy hand ! " 
For it all was a riddle drear 
'iliat I fainted to understand. 
Canopy, close-drawn ronnd. 
Part not, nor lift from the ground: 
Move not your finger-tips, 
Firs, from the heavens' lips. 
When this is Die place of His feet, 
How should I fear to raise 
]\ry blasted vision to meet 
The inconceivable blaze 

Of His majesty complete ? 



Cameron Mann. 

THE LOXGINO OF CIRCE. 

The vapid years drag by, and bring 
not here 
The man for whom I wait; 
All things pall on me; in my heart 
grows fear 
Lest I may miss my fate. 

I weary of the heavy wealth and ease 

Which all my isle enfold, 
The fountain's sleepy plash, the 
changeless breeze. 

That bears nor heat nor cold. 

With dull unvaried mien, my maids 
and I 
Glide through our household tasks; 
Gather strange herbs, weave purple 
tapestry. 
Distil, in magic flasks. 

Most weary am I of these men who 
yield 

So swiftly to my spell, — 
The beastly rout now wandering afield 

With grimt and snarl and yell. 

Ah! when in place of tigers and of 
swine, 
Shall he confront me, whom 
My song cannot enslave, nor that 
bright wine 
Where rank enchantments fume ? 

Then with what utter gladness will I 
cast 
My sorceries away; 
And kneel to him, my lord revealed 
at last 
And serve him night and day ! 



Christopher Marlowe. 

A PASS ION A TE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
LOVE. 

Come live with me and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That grove or valley, hill or field, 
Or wood and stecpy moimtain yield. 



MARSTON. 



843 



Where we will sit on rising rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed their 

flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

Pleased will I make thee beds of roses, 
And twine a thousand fragrant 

posies ; 
A cap of flowers and rural kirtle, 
Embroidered all witli leaves of myr- 
tle. 

A jaunty gown of finest wool, 
Wiiich from our pretty lambs we 

pull ; 
And shoes lined choicely for the cold. 
With bucldes of the piu'est gold : 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs; 
If these, these pleasures can thee 

move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 



Philip Bourke Marston. 

FROM FAR. 

O LOVE, come back, across the weary 

way 
Thou didst go yesterday — 
Dear Love, come back ! 

" I am too far upon my way to turn ; 
Be silent, hearts that yearn 
Upon my track." 

O Love! Love! Love! sweet Love! 

we are undone. 
If thou indeed be gone 
Where lost things are. 

" Beyond the extremest sea's waste 

light and noise, 
As from Ghostland, thy voice 
Is borne afar." 

O Love, what was our sin that we 

should be 
Forsaken thus by thee ? 

yo hard a lot! < 



" Upon your hearts, my hands and 

lips were set — 
My lips of fire — and yet 
Ye knew me not. 

Nay, surely, Love! We knew thee 

well, sweet Love! 
Did we not breathe and move 
AVithin tliy light ? 

" Ye did reject my thorns who wore 

my roses; 
Now darkness closes 
Upon your sight." 

O Love! stern Love! be not impla- 
cable ; 
We loved thee. Love, so well ! 
Come back to us ! 

" To whom, and where, and by what 

weary way 
That I went yesterday. 
Shall I come thus ? 

Oh, weep, weep, weep! for Love who 

tarried long 
With many a kiss and song 
Has taken wing. 

No more he lightens in our eyes like 

fire! 
He heeds not our desire, 
Or songs we sing. 



TOO NEAR. 

So close we are, and yet so far apart. 
So close, I feel your breath upon my 

cheek ; 
So far that all this love of mine is 

weak 
To touch in any way yoiu* distant 

heart ; 
So close that when I hear your voice 

I start. 
To see my whole life standing bare 

and bleak ; 
So far that though for years and 

years I seek, 
I shall not find thee other than 

thou art ; 



844 



MASON— MITCHELL. 



So while I live and walk upon the 

verge 
Of an impassable and changeless sea, 
Which more than death divides me, 

love, from thee: 
The mournful beating of its leaden 

surge 
Is all the music now that I shall 

hear; — 
O love, thou art too far and yet too 

near ! 



Caroline Atherton Mason. 

MA Y. 

I SAW a child, once, that had lost its 

way 
In a great city: ah, dear Heaven, such 

eyes ! 
A far-off look in them, as if the skies 
Her birtliplace were. So looks to me 

the May. 
April is ominous; June is glad and 

May glides between them in such 
wondering wise, 

Lovely as dropped from some far Par- 
adise, 

And knowing, all the while, herself 
astray. 

Or, is the fault with us ? Nay, call 
it not 

A fault, but a sweet trouble. Is it 
we, — 

Catching some glimpse of our own 
destiny 

In May's renewing touch, some yearn- 
ing thought 

Of Heaven, beneath her resurrecting 
hand, — 

We who are aliens, lost in a strange 
land ? 



AN^ OPEN SECRET. 

Would the lark sing the sweeter if 

he knew 
A thousand hearts hung breathless 

on his lay? 
And if " How fair! " the rose could 

hear us say. 



Would she, her primal fairness to 

outdo. 
Take on a richer scent, a lovelier 

hue ? 
Who knows or cares to answer yea or 

nay? 
O tuneful lark! sail singing on your 

way, 
Brimmed with excess of ecstasy ; and 

you, 

Sweet rose! renew with eveiy perfect 
Jime, 

Your perfect blossoming! Still na- 
ture-wise 

Sing, bloom, because ye must and not 
for praise. 

If only we who covet the fair boon 

Of well-earned fame, and wonder 
where it lies 

Wonld read the secret in your simple 
ways ! 



Weir Mitchell 

THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD. 

Four straight brick walls, severely 
plain, 

A quiet city square siuTOund ; 
A level space of nameless graves, 

The Quaker's burial-ground. 

In gown of gray or coat of drab, 
They trod the common ways of 
life. 

With passions held in sternest leash, 
And hearts that knew not strife. 

To yon grim meeting-house they 
fared. 
With thoughts as sober as their 
speech 
To voiceless prayer, to songless 
praise, 
To hear the elders preach. 

Through quiet lengths of days they 
came, 
With scarce a change to this re- 
pose ; 
Of all life's loveliness they took 
Tlie thorn without the rose. 



MOULTON. 



845 



But in the porch and o'er the graves 
Glad rings tlie soutliward robin's 
glee; 

And sparrows fill the autumn air 
With merry mutiny. 

While on the graves of drab and 
gray 

The red and gold of autmnn lie; 
And wilful Nature decks the sod 

In gentlest mockery. 



Louise Chandler Moulton. 

MY SAINT. 

On, long the weary vigils since you 
left me — 
In your far home, I wonder, can 
you know 
To what dread uttermost your loss 
bereft me. 
Or half it meant to me that you 
should go ? 

This world is full, indeed, of fair 
hopes perished. 
And loves more fleet than this poor 
fleeting breath; 
But that deep heart in which my 
heart wag cherished 
Must surely have survived what we 
call "death. 

They cannot cease — our own true 
dead — to love us, 
And you will hear this far-off cry 
of mine, 
Though you keep holiday so high 
above us. 
Where all the happy spirits sing 
and shine. 

Steal back to me to-night, from your 
far dwelling. 
Beyond the pilgrim moon, beyond 
the sun ; 
They will not miss your single voice 
for swelling 
Their rapture - chorus — you are 
only one. 



Ravish my soul, as with divine em- 
braces ; 
Teach me, if life is false, that 
Death is true ; 
With pledge of new delights in 
heavenly places 
Entice my spirit ; take me hence 
with you. 



AT SEA. 

Outside the mad sea ravens for its 

13*-ey — 
Shut from it by a floating plank I 

lie; 
Through this round window search 

the faithless sky, 
The hungry waves that fain would 

rend and slay. 
The live-long, blank, interminable 

way, 
Blind with the sun and hoarse with 

the Avind's cry 
Of wild, unconquerable mutiny. 
Until night comes more terrible than 

\lay. 
No more at rest am I than wind and 

wave; 
My soul cries with them in their wild 

despair, 
I, who am Destiny's impatient slave, 
Who find no help in hope, nor ease 

in prayer. 
And only dream of rest, on some dim 

shore 
Where sea and storms and life shall 

be no more. 



LEFT BEHIND. 

Wilt thou forget me in that other 
sphere — 
Thou who hast shared my life so 

long in this — 
And straight grown dizzy with that 
greater bliss. 
Fronting heaven's splendor strong 

and full and clear. 
No longer hold the old embraces 
dear 
When some sweet seraph crowns 

thee with her kiss? 
Nay, surely from that rapture thou 
wouldst miss 



846 



MOULTON. 



Some slight, small thins that thou 
hast cared for here. 

I do not dream that from those ulti- 
mate heights 
Thou wilt come back to seek me 
where I bide; 

But if I follow, patient of thy slights, 
And if I stand there, waiting by 
thy side, 

Surely thy heart M'ith some old thrill 
will stir, 

And turn thy face toward me, even 
fi-om her. 



IIIC JACET. 

So Love is dead that has been quick 
so long! 
Close, then, his eyes, and bear him 

to his rest, 
With eglantine and myrtle on his 
breast ; 
And leave him there, their pleasant 

scents among, 
And chant a sweet and melancholy 
song 
About the charms of which he 

was possest ; 
And how of all things he was love- 
liest. 
And to compare with aught were him 

to wrong. 
Leave him, beneath the still and 
solemn stars. 
That gather and look down from 
their far i)lace. 
With theii- long calm our brief 
woes to deride, 
Until the sun the morning's gate un- 
bars. 
And mocks, in turn, our sorrows 
with his face — 
And yet, had Love been Love, 
he had not died. 



FliOM A IVIXDOW IX CHAMOUNI. 

Long waited for, the lingering sun 

arose: 
Hid was the low east, flushed with 

crimson shame. 
By stately hills to which his glory 

came 



One after one, kindling the virgin 

snows. 
That on their brows eternally repose, 
To glowing welcome of his godlike 

claim 
To be their lord and lover, and his 
flame 
Of everlasting passion to disclose. 
Even so for you, impatient hearts, 
that wait. 
Cold 'neath the snows of your 
virginity. 
The hour shall come that warms you, 
soon or late: 
Though long your night, the long- 
est night goes by. 
Strong love shall shine in triumph 
from your sky. 
And with his kiss of fire fulfil your 
fate. 



Caroline Frances Orne, 

THE GOLD UXDEli THE HOSES. 

"■ Oir where hae ye been, my ain 
Johnnie? 
Where hae ye been wi' yoitr little 
spade?" 
" I hae been to dig up a pot o' money 
Amang the roses white and red."' 

" O dear, my Johnnie, my ain John- 
nie, 
Hae ye d igged my roses red and sweet ? 
What did ye find, my little laddie ? 
What gaed wrang? and what gars 
ye greet?" 

" I fand nae audit but ane auld 
penny — 
A thistle upon its grimy head; 
And the sweet white roses, the sweet 
red roses. 
Are a' ui:)rooted and withered and 
dead." 

"Ah, my wee mannie, my ain John> 

nie! 

Tak tent the lesson be wisely sped ; 

For gold or gear waste not life's 

sweetness. 

Better love's roses white and red." 



PALFREY— PRENTICE. 



847 



Sarah Hammond Palfrey 

(e. foxtox). 

THE CHILD'S PLEA. 

Because I wear the swaddling-bands 
of time, 
Still mark and watch me, 
Eternal Father, on Thy throne sub- 
lime, 
Lest Satan snatch me. 

Because to seek Thee I have yet to 
learn, 
Come down and lead me ; 
Because I am too weak my bread to 
earn, 
My Father, feed me. 

Because I grasp at things that are 
not mine, 
And might undo me, 
Give, from thy treasure-house of 
goods divine. 
Good gifts imto me. 

Because too near the pit I creeping 
go, 
Do not forsake me. 
To climb into Thine arms I am too 
low ; 
O Father, take me ! 



THE LI GUT-HOUSE. 

O'er waves that murmur ever nigh 
I\Iy window opening toAvard the 
deep, 
T!ie hght-liouse, Avith its wakeful eye 
Looks into mine, that shuts to 
sleep. 

I lose myself in idle dreams. 
And wake in smiles or sighs or 
fright 

According to my vision's themes, 
And see it shining in the night. 

Forever there and still the same; 
"While many more, besides me, 
mark, — 
On various course, with various 
aim, — 
That light that shineth in the dark. 



It draws my heart towards those 
who roam 

Unknown, nor to be known by me; 
I see it and am glad, at home. 

They see it, and are safe at sea. 

On slumbrous, thus, or watching 
eyes. 
It shines through all the dangerous 
night ; 
Until at length the day doth rise. 
And light is swallowed up of light. 

Light of the world, incarnate Word, 
So shin'st thou through our night 
of time, 

Whom freemen love to call their Lord, 
O Beacon, steadfast and sublime ! 

And men of every land and speech. 
If but they have Thee in their 
sight. 
Are bound to Thee, and each to each. 
Through thee, by countless threads 
of light. 



George Dennison Prentice. 

THE RIVER IS THE MAMMOTH 
CA VE. 

O DAr.K, mysterious stream, I sit 1)y 

thee 
In awe profound, as myriad wander- 
ers 
Have sat before. I see thy waters 

move 
From out the ghostly glimmerings of 

ray lamp 
Into the dark beyond, as noiselessly 
As if thou wert a sombre river drawn 
Upon a spectral canvas, or tli(> stream 
Of dim Oblivion flowing through the 

lone 
And shadowy vale of death. There 

is no wave 
To whisper on thy shoie, or breathe 

a wail, 
Wounding its tender bosom on thy 

sharp 



848 



REDDEN. 



And jagged rocks. Iniuinierons min- 
gled tones. 

The voices of the day and of the 
night, 

Are ever heard tlirough all our outer 
world, 

For Nature there is never dumb ; but 
here 

I turn and turn my listening ear, and 
catch 

No mortal sound, save that of my 
own heart, 

That 'mid the awful stillness throbs 
aloud. 

Like the far sea-surf's low and meas- 
ured beat 

Upon its rocky shore. But when a 
cry. 

Or shout, or song is raised, how 
wildly back 

Come the weird echoes from a thou- 
sand rocks. 

As if unnumbered airy sentinels. 

The genii of the spot, caught up the 
voice. 

Repeating it in wonder — a wild maze 

Of spirit-tones, a wilderness of 
sounds, 

Earth-born but all unearthly. 

Thou dost seem, 

O wizard stream, a river of the dead — 

A river .of some blasted, perished 
world. 

Wandering forever in the mystic 
void. 

No breeze e'er strays across thy 
solemn tide; 

No bird e'er breaks thy surface with 
his wing ; 

No star, or sky, or bow, is ever 
glassed 

Within tliy depths ; no flower or blade 
e'er breathes 

Its fragrance from thy bleak banks 
on the air. 

True, here are flowers, or semblances 
of flowers, 

Carved by the magic fingers of the 
drops 

Tlaat fall upon thy rocky battle- 
ments — 

Fair roses, tulips, pinks, and violets — 

All white as cerements of the coflined 
dead ; 



But they are flowers of stone, and 

never drank 
The sunshine or the dew. O sombre 

stream, 
Whence comest thou, and whither 

goest? Far 
Above, upon the surface of old Earth, 
A hundred rivers o'er thee pass and 

sweep. 
In music, and in sunshine, to the 

sea; — 
Thou art not born of them. Whence 

comest thou, 
And whither goest '? None of earth 

can know. 
No mortal e'er has gazed upon thy 

source — 
No mortal seen where thy dark 

waters blend 
With tlie abyss of Ocean. None may 

guess 
The mysteries of thy course. Per- 
chance thou hast 
A hundred mighty cataracts, thun- 
dering down 
Toward Earth's eternal centre; but 

their sound 
Is not for ear of man. All we can 

know 
Is that thy tide rolls out, a spectre 

stream. 
From yon stupendous, frowning wall 

of rock, 
And, moving on a little way, sinks 

down 
Beneath another mass of rock as 

dark 
And frowning, even as life — our 

little life — 
Born of one fathomless eternity, 
Steals on a moment and then disap- 
pears 
In an eternity as fathomless. 



Laura C. Redden 

(lIOWAKI) GLYNDON). 

FAIR AND FIFTEEX. 

She is tlie east just ready for the sun 
Upon a cloudless morning. Oh, 
her cheek 



Hath caught the trick of that first, 
deUcate straak 
Which says earth's light-ward foot- 
steps have begun ! 

And still her brow is like some Arctic 
height 
Which never knows the full, hot 

flush of noon ; 
She wears the seal of May and not 
of June ; 
She is tlie new day, furthest off from 
night! 

Luring in promise of all daintiest 
sweetness : 
A bud with crimson rifting througli 

its green ; 
The large, clear eyes, so shy their 
lids between 
Give hints of tliis dear wonder's near 
completeness. 

For, when the bud is fair and full, 
like this, 
We know that there will be a queen 

of roses, 
Before her cloister's emerald gate 
uncloses. 
And her true knight unlocks her with 
a kiss I 

And gazing on the young moon, 
fashioned sliglitly, 
A silver cipher inlaid on the blue. 
For all that she is strange and slim 
and new, 
We know that she will grow in glory 
nightly. 

And dear to loving eyes as that first 
look 
The watcher getteth of the far 

white sail. 
This new light on her face; she 
doth prevail 
Upon us like a rare, unopened book ! 



Helen Rich, 

FilLENT MOTIIEnS. 

I woxDER. cliild, if, when you cry 
To me, in such sore agony 



As I moaned "Mother!" yesterday, 
I shall not find some gracious way. 
Of comforting my little May ! 

If, Avlien you kiss my silent lips, 
They will not pass from death's 

eclipse 
To smile in peace I then shall know, 
That waits where tired mothers go — 
Ay, kiss and bless you soft and low ? 

If my poor children's grief will fail 
To stir the white and frosty veil 
That hides my secret from their eyes. 
Shall I not turn from Paradise 
To still the tempest of their sighs ? 

Oh ! patient hands, that toil to keep 
The wolf at bay while children sleep, 
That smooth each flossy tangled 

tress. 
And thrill witli mother happiness ; 
Have they not soon the power to 
bless ? 

I think the sting of death must be 
Resigning Love's sweet mastery; 
To bid our little ones '' Good night," 
And even with all Heaven in sight. 
To turn from home and its delight. 



Hiram Rich. 

STILL TEXANTED. 

Old house, how desolate thy life! 

Xay, life and death alike have fled; 
Nor thrift, nor any song within, 

Xor daily thought for daily bread. 

The dew is nightly on thy hearth. 

Yet something sweeter to thee 
clings. 
And some who enter think they hear 

The murmur of departing wings. 

No doubt within the chambers 
thei'e, 
Not by the wall nor through the 
gate. 
Uncounted tenants come, to Mliom 
The house is not so desolate. 



850 



BIORDAN. 



To them the walls are white and 
warm, 
The chimneys lure the laughing 
flame, 
The bride and groom take happy 
hands, 
The new-born babe awaits a name. 

Who knows what far-off journeyers 
At night return with winged 
feet. 
To cool their fever in the brook. 
Or haunt the meadow, clover- 
sweet ? 



And yet the morning mowers find 
Xo footprint in the grass they mow, 

The water's clear, unwritten song 
Is not of things that come or go. 

" Tis not forsaken rooms alone 
Tliat unseen people love to tread, 

Nor in the moments only when 
The day's eluded cares are dead. 

To every home, or high or low. 
Some unimagined guests repair, 

Who come unseen to break and bless 
The bread and oil they never share. 



Roger Kiordan. 

INVOCATION. 

Come, come, come, my love, come and hurry, and come, my dear; 

You'll find me ever loving true, or lying on my bier: 
For love of you has buriiedine through — has oped a gap for Death, I fear ; 

O come, come, come, my love, before his hand is here. 

Though angels' swords should bar your way, turn you not back, but 
persevere ; 

Though heaven should send down fiery hail, rain lightnings, do not fear; 
Let your small, exquisite, white feet fly over cliffs and mountains sheer, 

Bridge rivers, scatter armed foes, shine on the hill-tops near. 



Like citizens to greet their queen, then shall my hopes, desires, troop out, 
Eager to meet you on your way and compass vou about — 

To speed, to urge, to lift you on, 'mid storms of joy and floods of tears. 
To the poor town, the battered wall, delivered by your spears. 

The -javelin-scourges of your eye, the lightnings from your glorious face, 
Shall drive away Death's armies gray in ruin and disgrace. 

Lift me you shall, and succor me; iny ancient courage you shall rouse. 
Till like a giant I shall stand, with thunder on my brows. 

Then, hand in hand, we'll laugh at Death, his brainless skull, his nerveless 
arm; 

How can he wreak our overthrow, or plot, to do us harm ? 
For what so Meak a thing as Death when you are near, when you are near ? 

Oh, come, come, come, my love, before his hand is here ! 



lilTTEB — RUSSELL. 



851 



Mary L Ritter. 

RECOMPENSE. 

Heart of my heart! when that ijreat 

light shall fall, 
Burning away this veil of earthly 

dust, 
And I behold thee beautiful and 

strong. 
My grand, pure, perfect angel, wise 

and just; 
If the strong passions of my mortal 

life 
Should, in the vital essence, still re- 
main, 
Would there be then — as now — 

some cruel bar 
Whereon my tired hands should beat 

in vain ? 
Or should I, drawn and lifted, folded 

close 
In eager-asking arms, unlearn my 

fears 
And in one transport, ardent, wild 

and sweet, 
Keceive the promise of the endless 

years ? 



T. H. Robertson. 

COQUETTE. 

" Coquette," my love they some- 
times call. 

For she is light of lips and heart; 
What though she smile alike on all, 

If in her smiles she knows no art ? 

Like some glad brook she seems to 
be. 

That ripples o'er its pebbly bed. 
And prattles to each flower or tree. 

Which stoops to kiss it, overhead. 

Beneath the heavens' white and blue 
It purls and sings and laughs and 
leaps. 

The sxinny meadows dancing through 
O'er noisy shoals and frothy steeps. 



'Tis thus the world doth see the 
brook ; 
But I have seen it otherwise. 
When following it to some far nook 
Where leafy shields shut out the 
skies. 

And there its waters rest, subdued. 

In shadowy pools, serene and shy, 
Wherein grave thoughts and fancies 
brood 
And tender dreams and longings 
lie. " ^ 

I love it when it laughs and leaps, 
But love it better when at rest — 

'Tis only in its tranquil deeps 
I see my image in its breast ! 



AN IDLE POET. 

'Tis said that when the nightingale 

His mate has found. 
He fills no more the woodland deeps 

With songful sound. 

I sing not since I found my love. 

For, like tlie bird's 
My heart is full of song too sweet, 

Too deep, for words. 



Irwin Russell. 

HER CONQUEST. 

Muster thy wit, and talk of Avhatso- 
ever 
Light, mirth-provoking matter 
thou canst find : 
I laugh, and own that thou, with 
small endeavor. 
Hast won my miud. 

Be silent if thou wilt — thine eyes ex- 
pressing 
Thy thoughts and feelings, lift 
tliem up to mine: 
Then quickly thou shalt hear me, 
love, confessing 
My heart is thine. 



852 



SAXTON— 8 HURTLE FF. 



And let that brilliant glance become 
but tender — 
Return me heart for heart — then 
take the whole 
< )f all that yet is left me to surrender: 
Thou hast my soul. 

Now, when the three are fast in thy 
possession, 
And thou hast paid me back their 
worth, and more, 
I'll tell thee — all whereof I've made 
thee cession 
Was thine before. 



Andrew B. Saxton, 

MIDSUMMER. 

MiDAVAY about the circle of the year 
There is a single perfect day that lies 
Supremely fair before our careless 
eyes; 
After the spathes of floral bloom ap- 
pear, 
Before is found the first dead leaf and 
sere. 
It comes precursor of the autumn 

skies. 
And crown of spring's endeavor. 
Till it dies 
We do not dream the flawless day is 

here. 
And thus, as on the way of life Ave 
speed, 
Mindful but of the joys we hope to 
see. 
We never think. "These present 
hours exceed 
All that has been or that shall ever 
be;" 
Yet somewhere on our journey we 

shall stay 
Backward to gaze on our midsummer 
day. 



DELA r. 



Thou dear, misunderstood, maligned 
Delay, 
What gentler hand than thine can 
any know ! 



How dost thou soften Death's un- 
kindly blow. 
And halt his messenger upon the way ! 
How dost thou unto Shame's swift 
herald say, 
" Linger a little with thy weight of 

woe! " 
How art thou, imto those whose 
joys o'erflow, 
A stern highwayman, bidding passion 

stay, 
Robbing the lover's imlses of their 
heat 
Within the lonesome shelter of thy 
wood ! 
Of all Life's varied accidents we meet 
Where can we find so great an- of- 
fered good ? 
Even the longed-for heaven might 
seem less sweet 
Could we but hurry to it when we 
would. 



Ernest W. Shurtleff. 

OUT OF THE DARK. 

Day like a flower blossoms from the 

night. 
And all things beautiful arise from 

things 
That bear a lesser grace. The lily 

springs 
Pure as an angel's soul, and just as 

white. 
From out the dark clod where no ray 

of light 
E'er creeps. The butterfly, on airy 

wings, 
Rises from the cold chrysalis that 

clings 
To some dead, mouldering leaflet, hid 

from sight. 
If thus in nature all things good and 

fair. 
And all things that the grace of beauty 

wear, 
Begotten are of things that hold no 

charm, 
Then will I seek to find in eveiy care, 
And every sorrow, and in all the harm 
That comes to me, a pleasure swee' 

and rare. 



SPALDING — THOMPSON. 



853 



Susan Mark Spalding. 

A DESIRE. 

Let me not lay the lightest feather's 

weight 
Of duty upon love. Let not, my 

own, 
The breath of one reluctant kiss be 

blown 
Between our hearts. I would not be 

the gate 
That bars, like some inexorable 

fate. 
The portals of thy life; that says, 

" Alone 
Through me shall any joy to thee be 

known!" 
Eather the window, fragrant early 

and late 
With thy sweet, clinging thoughts, 

that grow and twine 
Around me like some bright and 

blooming vine. 
Through which the sun shall shed his 

wealth on thee 
In golden showers ; through which 

thou mayest look out 
Exulting in all beauty, without 

doubt. 
Or fear, or shadow of regret from me. 



Edith M, Thomas. 

FLOWER AND FRUIT. 

In the spring, perverse and sour, 
He cared not for bud or flower, 
Garden row or blossomed tree: 
Rounded fruit he fain would see; 
Vintage glow on sunburnt hills, 
Bursting garners, toiling mills. 
Sheer unreason! 
Pity 'twere to waste the blooming 
season ! 

AVhat's the matter ? Xow he sits 
Deep in thought; his brow he knits 
Here is fruit on vine and bough, — 
Malcontent ! what seeks he now ? 
Would have flowers when flowers 
are none, 



So in love with springtime grown! 

Sheer unreason ! 
Pity 'twere to waste the rii>ened sea- 
son! 



Maurice Thompson. 



THE MORNING HILLS. 



He sits among the morning hills, 
His face is bright and strong; 

He scans far heights, but scarcely 
notes 
The herdsman's idle song. 

He cannot brook this peaceful life. 
While battle's trumpet calls; 

He sees a crown for him who wins, 
A tear for him who falls. 

The flowery glens and shady slopes 

Are hateful to his eyes; 
Beyond the heights, beyond the 
storms. 

The land of promise lies. 



He is so old and sits so still. 
With face so weak and mild. 

We know that he remembers naught, 
Save when he was a child. 

His fight is fought, his fame is won, 
liife's highest peak is past. 

The laurel crown, the triumph's arch 
Are worthless at the last. 

The frosts of age destroy the bay, — 
The loud applause of men 

Falls feebly on the palsied ears 
Of fourscore years and ten. 

He does not hear the voice that bears 
His name around the world ; 

He has no thought of great deeds done 
Where battle-tempests whirled. 

But evermore he's looking back, 
Whilst memory fills and thrills 

With echoes of the herdsman's song 
Among the morning hills. 



854 



TICKNOR. 



BEFORE DAWN. 

A KEEN, insistent hint of dawn 
('anie from the mountain height; 

A wan, uncertain gleam betrayed 
The faltering of the night. 

The emphasis of silence made 

The fog above the brook 
Intensely pale ; the trees took on 

A haunted, haggard look. 

Such quiet came, expectancy 
Filled all the earth and sky ; 

Time seemed to pause a little space; 
I heard a dream go by ! 



Frank 0, Ticknor. 

LITTLE GIFFEX. 

Out of the focal and foremost fire. 
Out of the hospital walls as dire ; 
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) 
Spectre! sucli as you seldom see. 
Little Giffen, of Tennessee ! 

" Take him and welcome!" the sui-- 
geons said ; 

Little the doctor can help the dead ! 

So we took him; and brought him 
where 

The balm was sweet in the summer 
air; 

And we laid him down on a whole- 
some bed — 

Utter Lazarus, heel to head! 

And we watclied the war with abated 

breath, — 
Skeleton boy against skeleton death. 
Months of torture, how many such ? 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
Told of a spirit tliat wouldn't die, 

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's 

despite 
The crippled skeleton " learned to 

write." 
Dear mot her, at first, of course; and 

then 



Dear captain, intjuiring about, the 

men. 
Captain's answer: of eighty-and-five, 
Giffen and I are left alive. 

Word of gloom from the war, one day ; 
Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
Little Giffen was up and a^ay ; 
A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye, 
"'I'll write, if spared!" There was 

news of the fight ; 
But none of Giffen. He did not write. 

I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
Of the princely knights of the golden 

ring, 
With the song of the minstrel in mine 

ear, 
And the tender legend that trembles 

here, 
I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 



GBA Y. 



Something so human-hearted 

In a tint that ever lies 
Where a splendor has just departed 

And a glory is yet to rise! 

Gray in the solemn gloaming, 
Gray in the dawning skies ; 

In the old man's crown of honor. 
In the little maiden's eyes. 

Gray mists o'er the meadows brood- 
ing, 
Whence the ^\orld must draw its 
best ; 
Gray gleams in the churchyard 
shadows, 
Where all the world would " rest." 

Gray gloom in the grand cathedral, 
Where the " Glorias" are poured. 

And, with angel and archangel, 
We wait the coming Lord. 

Silvery gray for the bridal. 

Leaden gray for the pall ; 
For urn, for wreath, for life and death. 

Ever the (rrai/ for all. 



Gray in the very sadness 

Of ashes and sackcloth ; yea, 
While our raiment of beauty and 
gladness 
Tarries, our tear^ shall stay; 
And our soul shall smile through 

their sadness, 
And our hearts shall wear the Gray. 



Henry Timrod. 

HARK TO THE SHOUTING WIND! 

Hark to the shouting wind! 

Hark to the flying rain ! 
And I care not though I never see 

A bright blue sky again. • 

There are thoughts in my breast to- 
day 

That are not for human speech ; 
But I hear them in the driving storm. 

And the roar upon the beach. 

And oh ! to be with that ship 

That I watch through the blinding 
brine ! 

wind ! for thy sweep of land and 

sea! 
O sea! for a voice like thine! 

Shout on, thou pitiless wind. 
To the frightened and flying rain ! 

1 care not though I never see 
A calm blue sky again. 



Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
Which keep in trust your storied 
tombs. 
Behold ! your sisters bring their 
tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will 
smile 
More proudly on those wreaths to- 
day. 
Than when some cannon-moulded 
pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies. 

By mourning beauty crowned. 



DECORATION ODE. 

Sung at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, 
S. C. 1867. 

Sleep sweetly in your humble 
graves, 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
Though yet no marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 
The blossom of yom- fame is 
blown. 

And somewhere waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone. 



A COMMON THOUGHT. 

Somewhere on this earthly planet, 
In the dust of flowers to be. 

In the dew-drop, in the sunshine, 
Sleeps a solemn day for me. 

At this wakeful hour of midnight 

I behold it dawn in mist. 
And I hear a sound of sobbing 

Through the darkness. Hist, oh, 
hist! 

In a dim and nmsky chamber, 

I am breathing life away! 
Some one draws a curtain softly. 

And I watch the broadening day. 

As it purples in the zenith. 
As it brightens on the lawn. 

There's a hush of death about me. 
And a whisper, '' He is gone!" 



Isaac Watts. 

INSIGNIFICA N T EX IS TENCE. 

There are a number of us creep 
Into this world, to eat and sleep; 
And know no reason why we're born, 
But only to consume the corn, 



856 



WELBF— WHITMAN. 



Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish, 
And leave behind an empty dish. 
The crows and ravens do the same, 
Unlucky birds of hateful name; 
Kavens oi- crows might fill tlieir 

places, 
And swallow corn and carcases. 
Then if their tombstone, when they 

die, 
Be n't taugiit to flatter and to lie. 
There's nothing better will be said 
Than that "they've eat up all their 

bread, 
Drunlc up their drink, and gone to 

bed." 



LOBD, WHEN I QUIT THIS 
EARTHLY STAGE. 

Lord, wlien I quit tliis eartlily 
stage, 

Where shall I flee but to thy breast? 
For I have sought no other home. 

For I have learned no other rest. 

I cannot live contented here, 

Without some glimpses of thy face; 
And heaven, without thy presence 
there. 
Would be a dark and tiresome 
place. 

My God! Andean a humble child. 
That loves thee with a flame so 
high. 

Be ever from thy face exiled, 
Witliout the pity of thy eye ? 

Impossible. For thine own hands 
Have tied my heart so fast to tliee. 

And in thy book tlie promise stands. 
That where thou art thy friends 
must be. 



THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 

There is a land of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign ; 

Eternal day excludes tlie night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides, 
And never-fading flowers ; 

Death, like a narrow sea divides 
This heavenly land fi'om ours. 



Sweet fields, beyond the swelling 
flood. 

Stand dressed in living green : 
So to the JeAvs fair Canaan stood, 

Wliile Jordan rolled between. 

But timorous mortals start and 
shrink. 

To cross this narrow sea; 
And linger, trembling, on the brink. 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh, could we make our doubts re- 
move. 

Those gloomy doubts that rise, 
And see the Canaan tliat we love 

With unbeclouded eyes ; — 

Could we but climb where Moses 
stood. 
And view the landscape o'er. 
Not Jordan's stream — nor death's 
cold flood. 
Should friglit us from the shore. 



Amelia B. Welby. 

TWILIGHT AT SEA. 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew 
by, 

As lightly and as free ; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 

Ten thousand on tlie sea. 

For every wave witli dhnpled face 

That leaped upon the air, 
Had caught a star in its embrace 

And held it trembling there. 



Sarah H, Whitman. 

SONNETS TO EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

When first I looked into thy glorious 

eyes, 
And saw, with their unearthly beauty 

pained, 




WHITMAN. 



Heaven deepening within heaven, 

like the skies 
Of autumn nights without a shadow 

stained, — 
I stood as one whom some strange 

dream entliralls: 
For, far away, in some lost life 

divine. 
Some land which every glorious 

dream recalls, 
A spirit looked on me with eyes like 

thine. 
E'en now, though death has veiled 

their starry light. 
And closed their lids in his relentless 

night — 
As some strange dream, remembered 

in a dream. 
Again I see in sleep their tender 

beam ; 
Unfading hopes their cloudless azure 

fill. 
Heaven deepening within heaven, 

sei'ene and still. 



If thy sad heart, pining for human 
love, 

In its earth solitude grew dark with 
fear. 

Lest the high sun of heaven itseif 
should prove 

Powerless to save from that phantas- 
mal sphere 

Wherein thy spirit wandered — if the 
flowers 

That pressed around thy feet seemed 
but to bloom 

In lone Gethseinanes, through star- 
less hours, 

When all who loved had left thee to 
thy doom ! — 

Oh, yet believe that in that hollow 
vale 

Where thy soul lingers, waiting to at- 
tain 

So much of Heaven's sweet grace as 
shall avail 

To lift its burden of remorseful 
pain, — 

My soul shall meet thee, and its 
heaven forego 

Till God's great love on both, one 
hope, one Heaven, bestow. 



THE LAST FLOWERS. 

Dost thou remember that autumnal 
day 
When by the Seekonk's lovely 
wave we stood. 
And marked the languor of repose 
that lay. 
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, 
and wood? 

A trance of holy sadness seemed to 
lull 
The charmed earth and circinn- 
ambient air; 
And the low murmur of the leaves 
seemed full 
Of a resigned and passionless des- 
pair. 

Though the warm breath of sunuuer 
lingered still 
In the lone paths where late her 
footsteps passed. 
The pallid star-llowers on the pur]>le 
hill 
Sighed dreamily, " We are the last 
— the last!" 

I stood beside thee, and a dream of 
heaven 
Around me like a golden halo fell! 
Then the bright veil of fantasy was 
riven, 
And my lips nmrmured, "Fare 
thee well! farewell!" 

I dared not listen to thy words, nor 
tiu'n 
To meet the mystic language of 
thine eyes; 
I only felt their power, and in the 
urn 
Of memory, treasured their sweet 
rhapsodies. 

We parted then, forever — and the 
hours 
Of that bright day were gathered to 
the past — 
But through long, wintry nights I 
heard the flowers 
Sigh dreamily, " AVe are the last! 
— the last! " 



858 



YOUNO. 



William Young. 



THE HORSEMAN. 

Who is it rides with whip and spur — 
Or madman, oi" king's messenger? 

The night is near, the lights begin 
To glimmer from the roadside inn. 

And o'er the moorland, waste and 

wide, 
The mists behind the horseman ride. 

" Ho, there within — a stirrup-cup! 
No time have I to sleep or sup. 

" An honest cup! — and mingle well 
The juices that have stiU the" spell 

"To banish doubt and care, and 

slay 
The ghosts that prowl the king's 

highway." 

"And whither dost thou ride, my 

friend ?" 
"My friend, to find tlie roadway's 

end. ' ' 

His eyeballs shone: he caught and 

quaffed. 
With scornful lips, the burning 

draught. 

" Yea, friend, I ride to prove my 

life; 
If there be guerdon worth the strife — 

" If after loss, and after gain. 
And after bliss, and after pain, 



" There be no deeper draught than 

this — 
No sharper pain — no sweeter bliss — 

" Nor anything which yet I crave 
This side, or yet beyond the grave — 

'' All this, all this I ride to know; 
So pledge me, gray-beard, ere I go.'' 

"But gold thou hast: and youth is 

thine. 
And on thy breast the blazoned sign 

"Of honor — yea, and Love hath 

bound. 
With rose and leaf thy temples round. 

"With youth, and name, and wealth 

in store. 
And woman's love, what wilt thou 

more? " 

" * What more ? ' ' what more ? ' thou 
gray-beard wight? 

That something yet — that one de- 
light— 

"To know! to know! — although it 

be 
To know but endless misery! 

" The something that doth beckon 

still, 
Beyond the plain, beyond the hill, 

" Beyond the moon, beyond the sun, 
Where yonder shining coursers run. 

"Farewell! Where'er the pathway 

trend, 
1 ride, I ride, to fuid the end! " 



INDEX TO FIEST LTOES 



A bee flew in at my window, Kimball, 319 

Abide not in the land of dreams, Burleigh, 809 

Abide with me ! fast falls the eventide Lyfe, 353 

A bird sang sweet and strong Curtis, 181 

A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon, Bennett, 37 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) Hunt 299 

A brace of sinners, for no good Wolcot, 792 

A certain artist — I've forgot his name — Btjrom, 706 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Campbell Ill 

A clergyman who longed to trace, J^- Bates, 687 



irHson, 657 

Thaxter 591 

E. D. Proctor, ... 449 

Palmer 762 

40 



84 

677 
437 
792 
207 



A cloud lay cradled near the .setting sun, 

Across the narrow beach we flit. 

Across the steppe we journeyed, 

A district school, not far away, . 

Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad, .... Bloomfield 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Burns. . 

A face that should content me wondrous well Wi/att, . 

Afar in the desert I love to ri<le, Prinr/le, 

A fellow in a market town Wolcot, . 

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Dryden, , 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, Wordsworth 677 

A fox, full fraught with seeniing sanctity, Dryden, 722 

Afraid of critics ! an unworthy fear, Mack-ay, 754 

After so long an absence, H. W. Lomi/iltow, . . 342 

After this feud of yours and mine S. M. B. Piatt, ... 420 

Against her foes Religion well defends, Crahbe 168 

Against her mouth she pressed the rose, Jennison 832 

Age has now, lior/ers 463 

A good man there was of religion Chancer, 810 

A great mind is an altar on a hill, 

A grief without a pang, void, <lark, and drear, 
A harmless fellow, wastiui; usdi'^s ilays, . . 
Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings, 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go ! 

Ah me ! forevermore, Hayn 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting ; McCarthy 



Tupper 615 

S. T. Colerid//e, ... 136 

G. Arnold, .... . 23 

Landon, 327 

Spoford, 531 

... 255 

. . . 369 



Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see Herrick, 265 

A holv stillness, beautiful and deep, Sarr/ent, 471 

Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, S. jV. B. Piatt, ... 419 

Ah then, how sweetly closed those crowded days ! . . . Allston 19 

A hundred noble wishes till my heart, Richard.^on, .... 4.59 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race? - Landor 328 

Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven? Thomson, 597 

Ah! who can tell how hard it is t(j climb? Beattie, M 

A keen insistent hint of dawn, Thompson, 854 

Alas — how light a cau.se may move Moore 385 

Alas, long suifering and most patient (iod E. B. Browniiii/. . . 67 

Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! . . . . Willis 6.54 

Alas ! the setting sun, /'. Sniithei/, .... 515 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth .S. 7'. Coleridf/e. . . . 136 

Alas, to our discomfort and his own, f'of/ers, 460 

A life on the ocean wave, .Sargent 469 



860 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, O. Jfilde t>47 

A lily rooted in a sacred soil, /'Iu'ljis, 410 

A little child, beneath a tree MacL-itij 361 

A little hand, a fair soft hand, Spofford, ...... 5.'j0 

All are not taken ! they are left behind, E.'ji. Broirnhif/, . . 03 

All beautiful things bring sadness, Trench, ...... 603 

All clianiii- ; no death, E. Yotiiuj, 683 

All con(iu»st-liushed, from prostrate Python, came, . . Thomson r)!).5 

All day 1 heard a humming in my ears Boler, 4.") 

Scott, 4S(t 

G. Arnold, 23 

E. Young 677 

.3.5 
(ill 



All joy was bereft me the ilay that you left me 
All moveless stand the ancient cedar trees 
All promise is poor dilatory man, . . . 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say Beers, 

All round the lalce the wet woods shake, Trou'brkhje, 

All the kisses that 1 have given C. F. Bates, .... .31 

" All the rivers run into the sea," Phelps, 4l() 

All the world's a stage, Shakespeare, .... 4X4 

All tilings have a doulilc power R. Southey, .... ."Jlti 

All tilings once arc things for ever ; Lord Houqhfon, . . . 28!) 

All Ihouglits, all passidiis, all delights S. T. Voler'tdije, . . . 141 

All winter drives along the darkened air, Thomson, . . . . . 593 

All worldly shapes shall melt ill gloom, Campbell, 109 

Almighty Father ! let thy lowly child, E. Elliott, 212 

Almost at the root, . . . . " Wordsworth, .... 669 

Alone 1 walked the ocean strand, Gould, 238 

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun, Street .548 

Although 1 enter not, Thach-rm/ .'jss 

A man's life is a tower, Tupjirr, (;20 

A man so various that he seemed to be, Drijden, 722 

A man there came, whence none could tell, Allingham, .... Is 

Amid the elms that interlace Crunch, 174 

A moiiarcli soul hath ruled thyself, O Queen, . . . . C. E. Bates, .... 31 

Among so many, can He care? Whitney, 638 

And are ye sure the news is true? Mickle 372 

And greedy Avarice by him did ride, E. Sjienser, .... .525 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now, .... Byron, 103 

And is there care in heaven ? E. Spenser, .... .528 

And is the swallow gone? W. Hoioitt, .... 2!it; 

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace, Scott, 477 

And now arriving at the Hall, he tried, Crabbe 719 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, . . . Pope, 767 

And now, while winged with ruin from on high, . . . Falconer, 217 

And oh, the longing, burning eye ! Leiand, 339 

And such is Human Life ; so, gliding on, liogers, 462 

And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death Masse;/ .368 

And thou hast walked about, H. Smith, 511 

And was it not enough that, meekly growing, .... Se.aver, 482 

And were that best. Love, dreamless, endless sleep?. . Gilder, 233 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe Byron li)5 

Angels are we, that, once from heaven exiled, .... Trench 606 

Anon tired laborers bless their sheltering home, . . . Bloomlield, .... 4(t 

An original something, fair maid Campbell, 708 

Answer me, burning stars of night ! Hemans 261 

A poet ! He hath put his heart to school, Wordsujorth, .... <)74 

A power hid in pathos ; a lire veiled in cloud : .... I!. B. Lyttnn S41 

April is in ; Symonils, .5,59 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Campbell, 117 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, S. T. Coleridr/e, . . . 135 

Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, . . . . Crabbe, ..'.... 165 

A sad old house by the sea, //.//. Brownell. ... .58 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, //. W. Lonr/fellow, . . .34» 

As doctors give physic by way of prevention Prior, .'.".... 772 

As dyed in blood, the streaming vines appear, .... C.F.Bates, .... 31 

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, Shelley, 493 

A sentence hath formed a character Tupper, 619 

A sentinel angel sitting high in glory, Ha'.l, -'54 

A serener blue ' Tli'omson, 592 

As 1 came round the harbor buoy /nqelow, 307 

A simple child, Wordsworth, .... 673 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



861 



A simple, sodded mound of earth, J'reston, 435 

As I was sitting in a wood, Mackay 757 

Ask me no more ; the moon may draw the sea, .... Tennyson 578 

Ask me no moi-e where Jove bestows, ....... Careir, 118 

Ask me why 1 send you here HerricI:, . . . 

A slanting ray of evening light, J. Taylor, . . 

As leaves turned red, i^. Batcn, . . 

As light November snows to empty nests, £. B. Broivn'mg, 

As lords their laborers' hire delay, Scott 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in .\lgiers C. E. S. Norton, 



A sower went forth to sow, 



u'66 
572 
32 
67 
479 
397 
GihJer 231 



As precious gums are not for lasting fire, JOryden, 2(16 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay, Clough, 131 

As slow our ship her foaming track, Moore, 388 

As sweet as the breath that goes, T. B. Alilrich, ... 10 

As sweet desire of day before the day, Sivinhurne, .... 552 

A steed, a steed of matchless speed ! Moiherirell, .... 392 

A street there is in Paris famous, Thackeray, .... 782 

As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood, .... Abbey 2 

As through the land at eve we went, Tennyson .577 

A story of Ponce de Leon, Buttericorth, .... sn 

A summer mist on the moimtain heights, Webster 631 

As virtuous men pass mildly away, Donne, 818 

As when a little child returned from play, Miller, 373 

As when in watches of the night we see, Appleton, 19 

As woodbine weds the plants, Cou'per 161 

At dawn the fleet stretched miles away, J. T. Fields, .... 225 

At dawn when the jubilant morning broke, J. C. li. Dorr, . . . 196 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Keats, 312 

A thousand daily sects rise up and die Dry den 205 

A thousand years shall come and go R. T. Cooke, .... 1.52 

At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone, G. Jlovyhton, .... 284 

At midnight in his guarded tent, Halleck, ...... 248 

At our creation, but the word was said ; Quarles, .' . . . . 4.51 

A traveller across the desert waste, Abbey, 1 

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow, .... Campbell, 115 

Autobiography ! so you say, Havergal, 823 

Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, .... Pope, 432 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro, Fenner 222 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, Cnnninyliam, . . . . 180 

A wife, as tender, and as true withal, Dry den, 206 

Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day, E. Cook, 149 

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where", Shakespeare, .... 487 



Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, . . 

Bards of passion and of mirth, 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Becalmed along the azure sky, 

Because I feel that, in the heavens above, 

Because I hold it sinful to despond, 

Because in a day of my days to come, 

Because 1 wear the swaddling bands of time, .... 

Because love's sigh is but a sigh, 

Before I trust my fate to thee, 

Behold her there in the evening sun, 

Behold the rocky wall, 

Believe not that your inner eye, 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 

Bending between me and the taper, 

Beneath the hill you may see the mill 

Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair, 

Benighted in my pilgrimage, — alone, — 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear against the earth. 

Beside me, — in the car, — .^she sat 

Beside yon strnggling fence that skirts the way, . . . 
Be thoii familiar, hut by no means vulgar, .'. . . . 

Better trust all and be deceived, 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping, 

Bird of the wilderness, 



Allen 15 

Keals, 311 

li. Broirninr/ 69 

Troicbridge 609 

Poe, 425 

Thaxter, 589 

Sanqster, 468 

5. fl. Palfrey, ... 847 

Winter, 660 

A. A. Procter, ... 442 

Larcom, 330 

Holmes, 279 

Lord Houghton. . . . 287 

Hood, .' 7.39 

A. T. De Fere. . . . 185 

Saxe, 474 

Crabbe, 168 

Tilton 602 

Trench, 604 

Clovf/h 132 

Goldsmith, .... 235 

Shakespeare, .... 485 

Kemble 318 

Bonar, 48 

Hofju, ...... 271 



Black boughs against a pale, clear sky, 

Black Tragedy let slip her grim disguise 

Blame not the times in which we live, 

Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways, 

Blessings on thee, little man, . . . .... 

Blesseil is the man whose heart and hands are pure ! 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Blow, northern winds ! 

Bonnie Tililiif Iiiglis, . . . . . .... 

Bowed half Willi aL;i' and half with reverence, . . . 
Brave spirit, that will brook no intervention, . . . 

Break, break, break, 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, .... 
Briglit as the pillar rose at Heaven's command, . . 
Bright books ! the perspectives to our weak sights, . 
Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots of bliss, 
Bright Star ! would 1 were steadfast as thou art, . . 

Bring poppies for a weary mind, 

Brown bird, with a \\is2) in your mouth 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 

" But a week is so long ! " he said, 

But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime, .... 
But happy they ! the happiest of their kind ! ... 

But list ! a low and moaning sound, 

But not e'en pleasure to excess is good 

But now the games succeeded, then a pause, .... 
But what strange art, what magic can dispose, . . . 

But who the melodies of inoru can tell ? 

By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

By numbers here from shame or censure free, . . . 

By the flow of the inland river 

By the motes do we know where the sunbeam is slanting 

By the pleasant paths we know, = . 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 

By these mysterious ties, the busy power, 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 



Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 

Calm on the bosom of our God, 

Care lives with all ; no rules, no precepts save, . . . 

Centre of light and energy ! thy way, 

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch, 

Cheap, mighty art ! her art of love, 

Children, that lay their pretty garlands by, .... 
" Choose thou between ! " and to his enemy, . . . 

Christ, whose glory Alls the skies 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 

Cleon hath ten thousand acres, 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

Cold in the earth — and the deep snow, 

Cold is the piean honor sings, 

Come a little nearer, doctor, — 

Come, brother, turn with me from pining thought, . 
Come, come, come, my love, come and hiu'ry, . . . 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Come into the garden, Maud 

Come, let us anew our journey pursue, 

Come, listen all unto my song, 

Come live with me and be my love, 

Come not when I am dead, 

Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, . . 

Comes something down with evt^ntide, 

Come, then, rare politicians of the time, 

Come, then, tell me, sage divine, 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish, . . . 

Companion dear ! the hour draws nigh ; 

Contide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, 

Consider the sea's listless chime ; 

" Coquette," my love they sometimes call, .... 



Lazarus, oi>7 

T. B. Aldrich, ... lli 

Symonds, .55!) 

A. T. De Vere, ... 186 

Whittier, 63!) 

Sjimonds, 558 

Shakcspciiri' 484 

Hopkins 828 

M. J/dirit/ 2!)5 

A. Fh-Uh, 2l'4 

Richdrdson, .... 458 

Tennyson, 584 

Hcott, 478 

Campbe/l, 11(> 

]'au()lian, 62f> 

Vaug/ian, 024 

Keats, 311 

Winter, 658 

Braddock, 805 

Emerson, 214 

J. C. Ji. Dorr, . . . 195 

S. Johnson, .... 3U8 

Thomson 5!)1 

If'ilson, 657 

Thomson, 596 

A. Fields, ..... 223 

Crahbe, 170 

Seattle, 34 

Alexander, .... 12 

S. Johnsoi], .... .109 

Finch, 227 

M. M. Dodye, . . . 192 

Prescott, 433 

Emerson, 215 

Akenside, 5 

Hoyt, 296 

Bonar 48 

Hemans 263 

Crabbe, 169 

Percival 411 

W. A. Butler, ... 87 

Vauqhan, 622 

Craik 172 

Bensel, 38 

Wesley 632 

Btfron, 101 

3iackay 362 

Boker 47 

E. Bronte, .54 

Winter, 001 

Witlson, 655 

Da7ia 182 

Biordan, 850 

H. K. White, .... 035 

Tenni/son, 508 

Wesley 633 

Saxe 775 

Marlowe 842 

Tennyson 585 

Sidnei/ 499 

Burbidye 809 

Vatcyhan, 623 

Akenside, 4 

Moore, 387 

Sigournc'i/ 499 

Ballanti/ne 28 

V. G. Bossetti, ... 467 

Uobertson 851 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



863 



Couched in the rocky lap of hills, Coolidge, 814 

Could we but know, Sfedmau, 536 

Could you come back to me, Douglas, Craik, 172 

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, . . . A. T. DeWn-. . . . im 

Crouch no more by the ivied walls, Stedman, 537 

Crushing the scarlet strawberries in the grass Thaxter, 589 

/ Darkness before, all joy behind ! G. Jlouglilon, . . . . 285 

Darlings of the forest Cooke, 152 

Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane; Burlngh, 8U9 

Daughter of Love ! Out of the flowing river A. Fields 223 

Day dawned : — within a curtained room A. A. Procter, . . . 445 

Day, in melting puri)le dying ; lirooKs, 55 

Day, like a flower, blossoms from the night, Shu7-tleff, 852 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, H. Smitli, 510 

Day will return with'a fresher boon ; lloUand, 272 

Dead, lonely night, and all streets quiet now, .... Morrin 390 

Dead? Thirteen a month ago, E. Ji. Ilrotrning, . . Gl 

Dear child of nature, let them rail ! U'ordsirorth, .... G71 

Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored, . . . ISlooinfield, .... 43 

Dear friend, far otf, my lost desire Tennyson, .576 

Dear friend, I know not if such days and nights, . . . Symonds, 560 

Dear, harmless age ! the short, swift span, Vauc/han, 622 

Dear, secret greenness ! nurst below ! Vawjlian, 621 

Deatli but entombs the body ; ■ . . . . E. Young, 681 

Death is here, and death is there Shelley, 492 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove Percival, 413 

Dey vented to the Opera Haus, Leland, 744 

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, . . . Baillie, 27 

Did you hear of the Widow Malone Lever, 745 

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live ; D. Gray, 822 

Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars, .... Dryden. 204 

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue, W. Collins, .... 145 

Discourage not thyself, my soul, Wither, 663 

Disdain me not without desert, Wyait, 677 

Distrust that word E. n. liroieniny, . . 688 

Do, and suffer naught in vain ; E. Elliott, 212 

Does the road winil up-hill all the way ? C. G. liossetti. ... 464 

Dost know the way to Paradise? Hutchinson, .... 830 

Dost thou remember that autumnal day, Whitman, 857 

Do the dead carry their cares, JI. H. Broicnell, ... 58 

Doubtless the pleasure is as great, .S'. Butler, 701 

Down by the river's bank I strayed, Lover, .'!47 

Dow's Flat. That's its name, Bret Ilarte 727 

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son G. P. Lathrop, . . . 334 

Drink to me only Avitii thine eyes, Jonson, 309 

Dubius is such a scrupulous good man, Coivper, 714 

Earl March looked on his dying child, Campbell, 115 

Earth gets its price for what earth gives us, Lnirell, 349 

Earth has not anything to show more fair, Wordsivorth 673 

Eftsoones unto an holy hospital, Spenser, 527 

Erewhile the sap has had its will, Hopkins, 829 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind Byron, 93 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky, Wordsivorth 673 

Even as a nurse, whose child's impatient pace, . . . . Vauyhan 626 

Ever let the fancy roam ; Keats, 311 

Every coin of earthly treasure Saxe, 476 

Every wedding, says' the proverb, Parsons, 410 

. . 2dG 

. . 130 

. . 258 

. . 124 

. . 92 

. . 487 



Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, Hayne 

Fair is thy face, Nantasket, Clemmer 



Fair time of calm resolve — of sober thought ! 

False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! . 

Farewell, Life ! my senses swim, 

Farewell, old frieiid,— we part at last ; . . . . 
Farewell, Renown ! Too fleeting flower, . . . 



Hedderwick, . . 
P. Carey, . . . 

Byron 

Shakespeare, . . 

Hood 2S3 

E. Cook, 150 

Dobson, 190 



864 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Farewell ! since nevermore for thee, Hervey 268 

Farewell, thou busy world, antl may Cotton 154 

Father, 1 will not ask for wealth or fame J'arker, 406 

Father of all ! in every age, Pope, 4:B 

Fear ileath ? — to feel the fog in my throat 1\. Brovning, ... 68 

?^ear no more the heat o' the sun, Shakespeare, .... 488 

Fever and fret and aimless stir, Fnher, 217 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behold— .... Laiidon 326 

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame, . . . Pope, 4:52 

First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw, . . Crubhe, 717 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed, K. B. Broiniiiu/, . . 64 

Fixed to her necklace, like another gem, T. B. Aldrich, ... 12 

Flutes in the sunny air ! Hervey, 267 

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, .... Milton 374 

Fly fro' the press, and dwell with soothfastnesse, . . . Chmirer, 811 

Foes to our race ! if ever ye have known, Cnibhe 168 

Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn M. Arnokl 24 

" Forever with the Lord ! " Montgomery, .... ."85 

For every sin that comes before the light, J. B. (T Ueilly, . . . 401 

" Forget me not." Ah, words of useless warning, . . . Sargent, 469 

For him who must see many years, M. Arnold, .... 25 

For Love I labored all the day Bnuiditlon, .... 50 

For mystery is man's life Tupper, 620 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched, .... S. T. Coleridge, . . . 125 

For us the almond tree, Tilton, 598 

For woman is not undeveloped man, Tennyson, 578 

Four straight brick Avails, severely plain Mitchell, 844 

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, .... Loirell, 3.51 

Friend after friend departs ; Montgomery, .... .jSl 

Friendship, like love is but a name, </. Gay, . . . . . . "itiH 

Friends of faces unknown and a land, E. B. Browning, . . 65 

Friend, whose smile has come to be, E. A. Allen, .... 1.5 

Frolic virgins once these were Herrick 266 

From the morning even until now, C. F. Bates, .... 31 

From you have I been absent in the Spring, ShaL-espeare, .... 489 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, Tennyson 582 

Gallants, attend, and hear a friend Hophinson 742 

Gay, guiltless pair, Spragne, 532 

Gayly and greenly let my seasons run. Blanchard 801 

Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Goldsmith, 236 

(ienius ! "thou gift of Heaven! thou light divine ! . . . Crahhe 163 

Girt with the grove's aerial sigh, Fau-cett, 221 

"Give me a motto," said a youth, Saxe, 473 

"Give me a son." The blessing sent, J. Gay 726 

Ciive place, ye lovers, here before Karl of Surrey, . . . 551 

" Give us a song ! " tlae soldiers cried, Taylor, 5ti8 

God bless the man who first invented sleep .sV(./e, 777 

God loves from whole to parts ; but human soul, . . . Pope, 4.31 

(iod loves not sin, nor I ; but in the throng, Holland, 273 

God makes such nights, all white an' still, Lowell 749 

(Jod moves in a mysterious wav, Cowper, 157 

(4od said -"Let there be light!" E. Klliott 211 

( iod sentl me tears ! JIayne 255 

(iod sets some souls in shade, alone Whitney 638 

(io, forget me — why should sorrow, Wolfe, 665 

<tO forth in life, O friend ! not seeking love, A. L. Botta, .... 50 

Go, lovely rose ! Waller, 628 

Go not, happy day, Tennyson 581 

Good men are the health of the world, Tupjier, 620 

Good-night? ah ! no; the hour is ill, Shelley,. ..... 495 

Good-night, pretty sleepers of mine »S'. M. B. Piatt, . . . 419 

Go, soiihist! dare not to despoil, J. T. Fields, .... 226 

Go, soul, the body's guest, llaleigh, 452 

"Got any boys?" the marshal said, Saxe, 776 

Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! Southey, 519 

Go, tritlers with God's secret, Buchanan, .... 807 

(irandmother's mother : her age I guess, Holmes, 277 

Grave i>oliticiaus look for facts alone, Crahhe, 717 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



865 



Green be the turf above thee Hailed: 

Green little vaulter" in the sunny grass, ] Hunt '. ! 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Lor/an 

Hail, free, clear heavens ! above our heads again, . . . Lazarus' 

Hail, holy Liglit, offspring of Heaven tirst-born, . . . Mikoii ' 

Hail ! Independence, hail ! Heaven's next best gift, . . Thomson 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit, Sliellci/ ' 

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, ". '. '. '. morris worth 

Mad unambitious mortals minded nought, Thomson ' 

Half a league, half a league, ' ' Teuni/wn 

Hamelin town's in Brunswick '. [ n. Biowidm, 

Hand m hand with angels, Larcom 

Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even, ." .' .' .' A. T He Vere 



2r,l 
300 

341 
336 
381 
594 
490 
072 

r>!»c 
r.s4 

Ci)0 
332 
1.S", 



Prior, . . . 4-j9 

Street, ...'..'. r,4!) 

Cmrper, joi 

. 83;» 



Ha!)i>y the mortal man. who now at last, .... 

Hark, that sweet carol ! Witli delight 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn ! o'er yonder bridge 

Hark to the measured march ! — The Saxons come, . . £. li. Liitton 

Hark to tlie shouting wind ! Timrod ' ' ' 

Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips along,' '. ' Bloomiie'ld ' 

llast thou a charm to stay tlie morning star ,S'. T 'ColerUh/p ' 

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? . . . . Emerson, . .' ' ' ' -m 

Hath this world without me wrought Hedge, .....'. 2.59 

"oh 



41 
13,S 



Have mind that age aye follows youth, .... Dunbar 

Have you not heard the iMiets tell ' " tB il'drirh' ' ' 

Hearing sweet music, as in fell despite, Treiicli ' ■ ■ 

Hear the sledges with the bells— .... /v,^ ' 



60.'-) 
424 



Hear the sledges with the bells— ^„p ,.,, 

Heart of my heart ! when that great light shall fall, '. Hitter sr.f 

Heaits, like api)les, are hard and sour, . ... 
Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn 
He erred, no doubt, perhaps he sinned : . . . 



286 

Ho/land, 237 

Tennyson, 585 

He falters on the th^sl^oidrrrTr-. ! ! ! ' " " Howelif'°'' 'it 

He had played for his lordship's levee, .' Dobson ' url 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free Coivner i^t^ 

He knew the seat of Paradise, v liifLr Ift, 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, . . . . . Milton •^-- 

Hence to the altar, and with her thou lov'st, . . . .' Boaers' diii 

Hence vain deluding joys, '....: S,!; ! ! .' : ' * t% 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere, Boberts 

Here IS the water-shed of all the year, B 

Here she lies, a pretty bud, ....... 

Here, too, came one who bartered all for power' 
Her hands are cold, her face is white ; . . . 
Herr Schnitzer make a philosopede, ....'' 

Her suttering endeil with the day : . 

He saw in sight of his house, 

He sins against this life who slights the next.' 

He sits among " 

He taught 

He that lov^„ ,. .„..j ..ucciv /., 

He took the suttering human 'race,' '.'.'.'..''' Af'^^JrnJ,! Hf 

He touched his harp, and nations heard, ....'' Polloh a~:1 

He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, " SirH'ranlor ' ' ■ ^~^ 

He was a man whom danger could not daunt, . . . sir A he Vere 



4.'')9 

U. Johnson, . . . 834 

Herrick, '^66 

Mitchell, 370 

Holmes, 278 

Leiand, 745 

J. Aldrich, 8 

Stoddard, 780 

E. Yonnci 681 



long the morning hills" ; ' Thorn Z TA 

the cheerfulness that still is ours mZ^ard; ! ' ' ' 80' 

ves a rosy cheek Carew '11s 

le suttering human race, j\/ Ar'noi 

d his harp, and nations heard Polio]- 

nan of that unsleeping spirit, .... ' SirH.'Ti 

^ nan whom danger could not daunt, . . . '. Sir A Th 

He was m logic a great critic c r,/,/^,. 

He, while his troop light-hearted leap ami play, . .' ' Crahbe 

He who died at Azan sends. ... h ,"tw. 



He who hath bent him o'er the (lead, .... ' ' Bnn 
Higher, higher will we climb, .... • ■ • j^jn 

High walls and huge the bodvmav confine, '.'.'' 

Hints, shrewdly strown, mightily disturb the spirit . 

His love hath tilled my life's fair cup, ... 

Hither, Sleep ! a mother wants thee ! . . 

Home they brought her warrior dead, ...::.'. jennnson r,-jr 

Honor and shame from no cmidition rise, . . . . Pone a-I 

Hoot, ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, . '. ' Carlet'on 7no 

How are songs begot and bred? .', siodd ril -ui 

How beautiful is night ! . . yoiieiatd 541 



r>6'j 

184 
()!I9 
164 
21 



Montrjomer;/ .';84 

Garrison. ' 229 

Tnpper. 017 

M. A. iJe Vere. ... 817 

Holland, ..... 274 

Tennyson 577 



Southey, 



541 
516 



866 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



How better am I 

How blest should we be, have I often conceived, . . . 

How canst thou call my modest love impure 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. 

How delicious is the winning, 

How does the water, . . . 

How do 1 love thee ? Let me count the ways 

How gracious we are to grant to the dead 

How happy is he born and taught 

How hard, when those wlio ilo not wish to lend, . . . 
How, how am I deceived ! I thought my bed, . . . . 

How looks Applcdore in a storm? 

" How many pinuids does the baby weigh— 

How many suuuners, love, 

How miserable a thing is a great man ! 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! . . 

How near we came the hand of death, 

How oft in visions of the night, 

How one can live on beauty and be rich, 

How pleasant it is that always 

How pure at heart ami sound in head, 

How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits, . . . 
How shall I know thee in tlie sphere which keeps, . . 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 

How soon hath Time, the sid)lle thief of youth, . . . 

How still the morning of tlie hallowed day ! 

How sweet and gracious, even in common speech, . . 

How vice and virtue in the soul contend ; 

Ho ! ye who in the noble work, 

Humanity is great ; 

Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold 

Hush! speak low ; tread softly ; 

Hush! 'tis a holy hour, — the quiet room, 



I am an idle reed : 

I am but clay in thy hands, but Thou 

I am content, I do not care, 

I am dying. Egypt, dying • 

I'm far frae my hame, and I'u) weary aftenwhiles : . 

I am Heiihaistos, and forever here, 

1 am monarch of all I survey, 

I am Nicholas Tacchinardi, — hunchbacked, look you, 

I am thinking to-night of the little child ; 

I asked my fair, one happy day, 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, . . . 

I can go nowhere but I meet, 

I cannot love thee, but I hold thee dear — . . . . 

I cannot make him dead I 

I care not. Fortune, what you me deny ; 

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
I count my time by times that I meet thee, .... 

I die for thy sweet love I Tlie ground, 

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 

I do not own an inch of land, 

I don't go much on religion, 

I'tl rather see an empty bough, — 

1 dreamed I had a plot of ground, 

If aught of oaten stop, or i>astoral song 

I fear thee not, O Death ! nay, oft 1 pine 

If I couhl ever sing the songs 

If I had known in the morning, 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

If it must be — if it must be, O God ! 

If life awake and will never cease, 

If love were what the rose is, 

If on the book itself we cast our view, 

If on this verse of mine, 

I found a fellow-worker, when I deemed, 

If, sitting with this little worn-out shoe 



Kimball,. . 
M. B. Lytton, 

Bnlcei; . . 
Woochuorth, 
Campbell, . 
Ji. Southeij, 

E. B. Browning, 
S. M. B. Piatt, 
Wotton, . 
Hood, 
Qiiarles, 
Lowell, . . 
Beers, . . 

B. W. Procter 
Croivne, . . 
Allen, . . 
Wither, . . 
G. ,S'. Hillard. 
Webster, . 

F. Smith, . 
Tennyson, . 

S. T. Coleridge, 
Bryant, . . 
jr. Collins, 
Milton, . . 
Grahame, . 
J. T. Fields 
Crabbe, . , 
Masse;/, . . 
E. B. Browning, 
Dana, . . . 
A. A. Procter, 
Hemans, . . 



F. A. Hillard, 
Cranch, . . 
Byrom, . . 
Lytle, . . 
Demarest, . 

A. Fields, . 
Cowper, . . 
J. T. Fields, 
J. C. P. Dorr, 
S. T. Coleridge, 
Shelley, . 
Cotton, . 
F. Smith, 
Pierpont, 
Thomson, 
Scott, . . 
Gilder, . 

B. W. Procter, 
Ayfon, . , 
Larcom, . 
Hai/, . . , 
Phelps, . , 
A. Cary, 
W. Collins, 
Hayne, . , 
Stoddard, . 
Sane/. 'iter, , 
Wolfe, . . 

D. Grai/, 
Holland, . 
Sicin hurne, 
JJrydeii. 

E. Arnold, 
O'Sham/hnessy 
M. n. Smith, . 



320 
841 
46 

cm 

110 
521 

64 
420 
676 
741 
451 
356 

32 
445 
179 

14 
6Gs 
269 
630 
509 
575 
141 

78 
145 
3M0 
239 
226 
169 
368 
689 
181 
441 
262 

827 
176 
705 
353 
183 
224 
161 
227 
194 
710 
492 
1.54 
509 
422 
596 
481 
232 
446 
798 
332 
730 
417 
121 
147 
257 
542 
4(38 
664 
822 
275 
555 
204 
22 
404 
513 



INDEX TO FIB ST LINES. 



867 



If those, who live in shepherd's bower, . 

If tliou wert by my side, my love, . . . 

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 

If to be absent, were to be, 

If, when you labor all the day, .... 

If you love me, tell me not ; 

I gave my little girl back to the daisies, 

I gazed upon the glorious sky, .... 

I give thee treasures hour by hour, . . 

I greet thee, loving letter — 

1 grew assured before I asked, .... 

I haf von funny leedle poy, 

I have a little kinsman, . ' 

I have been sitting alone, 

I have had iilayniates, 1 have had companious 

1 hear it often in the <lark, 

I know a bright and l)eauteous May, . . . 

I know a girl with teeth of pearl, .... 

I know not how it is ; 

I know that all beneath the moon decays ; 

I lie in the summer meadows, 

I like a church ; I lilce a cowl ; — . . . . 

" I'll take the orchard path," she said, . . 

I long have been puzzled to guess, . . . 

I long have had a quarrel set with Time, . 

I lost my treasures one by one, 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

I love to look on a scene like this, .... 

I'm not a chicken ! I have seen, .... 
I'm not where I was yesterday, .... 
I mourn no more my vanished years, . . 
1 must lament. Katiire commands it so : 

I'm wearin' awa'. Jean, 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and 

In a valley, centuries ago, 

In all my wanderings round this world Of car 
In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read, 

1 never cast a flower away, 

In every village marked with little spire. 
In hazy gold the hillside sleeps, . . . 
In later years veiling its unblest face. . 
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours. 
In JMay, when sea-winds piereeil our solitudes 

In my nostrils, the sunnner wind 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed, . 
In purple robes ol<l Sliavnamon, .... 
In schools of wisdom all the day was spent : 
In silent ease, at least in silence, dine, . . 
Interred beneath this marble stone, . . . 

In the balmy April weather, 

In the dewy deptlis of the grave-yard, . . 
In Thee, O blessed God, 1 hope, ' . . . . 

In the ttreshine at the twilight, 

In the garden of death, where the singers, 

In the hour of my distress 

In these deep solitudes and awful cells. 
In the spring, perverse and sour, .... 

In tlie stormy waters of Galloway 

In the warm valley, rich in summer's wealth 

Into a city street, 

Into a ward ot the whitewashed walls, . 
In yonder grave a Druid lies, .... 
I once was a jolly young beau, .... 
I only polished am in mine own dust — . 
I prithee send me back my heart, . . . 

I remember, I remember,' 

I said, if I might go back again, . . . 

I sat in a darkened chamber, 

I saw a child, once, that had lost its way, 



Thomson, . . 

. Hebvr, . . . 

. Scott, . . . 

. Love/ace, . . 

. Richarilson, . 

. L. Clark. . . 

. G. Houghton, . 

. Bryant, . . . 

. li. T. Cooke, . 

. J. J. Piatt, . 

. Patmore. . . 

. (\ F. Adams, . 

. •SteiJman, . . 

. M. Collins, 

. Lamb, . . . 

. Gannett. . . 

. Stoddard, . . 

. Saxe, . . . 

. Webster, . . 

. Drummnnd , . 

. B. Taylor, . . 

. Emerson, . . 

. Perry, . . . 

. Saxe, .... 

. Blunt. . . . 

. J\J. B. Dodqe, . 

. P. P. Cooice. . 

■ Willis, ... 

. Holmes, . . . 

. Lord Houghton 

. Whitticr, . . 

. Quarles, . . 

. A'airu. . . . 

Svinhurne, 

Branch, . . . 

Goldsmith. 

Pope, .... 

C. B. Southey, 

Shenstone, . . 

Boker, . . . 

Trowbridfie, . 

Tennyson, . . 

Emerson, . . 

T. B. Aldrich, 

Scott, . . . 

Joyce, . . . 

Trench, . . . 

Crabbe. . . . 

Prior, . . . 

Til ton, . . . 

Hay 

Blackie, . . . 
Whitney, . . 
Sitinburne, 
Herrick, . . 
Pope, .... 
Thomas, . . 
A. Can/, . . 
S. D. Clark, . 
E. S. Palfrey, 
Lacoste, .' . . 
W. Collins, . 
Saxe, .... 
Trench, . , . 
Sucklinq, . . 
Hood, "... 
P. Can/, . . 
Ellis Gray, . 
Mason, . , . 



597 
258 
478 
316 
459 
128 
286 
73 
irj3 
418 
410 
685 
538 
144 
325 
228 
781 
475 
629 
198 
566 
213 
415 



802 
817 
151 
651 
733 
286 
641 
451 
394 
5:53 
.53 
235 
765 
515 
496 
804 
608 
580 
214 
10 
478 
835 
604 
718 
773 
600 
253 
800 
638 
552 
266 
429 
853 
120 
128 
405 
323 
148 
779 
606 
550 
280 
126 
823 
844 



868 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, . Moore, 387 

I saw the little boy, Earl of Surrey. ... 551 

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, li. [V. Longfellow, . . 343 

I saw two clouds at morning, Jirainnril, 52 

I saw two maids at the kirk, litotldard, C40 

I say, whatever you maintain, J'A Prior, 774 

I see the ancient master pale and worn Landon, 327 

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau, Coicper, 716 

I shall not see thee. Dare 1 say, • • •, Tennyson, .575 

I sit on the lonely headland, ' -C. Tuylor 564 

Is it not possible that all the love Brackett, 52 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he : Ji- Jirownhu;, .... 70 

Is there, for honest poverty Burns, 82 

Is this a fast — to keep — JJerrick, 267 



I stopped to read the milestone here, J. J. I'iatt, 

It comes betwixt me and the amethyst, I'reston, 

I thought to find some healing clime, P. Vary, 



418 
435 
127 

Wordsworth 675 

436 



It is a beauteous evening, calm and free. 

It is enough : I feel, this golden morn Preston 

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh Hood, 284 

It is not growing like a tree, B.Jonsoii, . . 

It is not that my lot is low, II. K. White, . 

It is the good of dreams — so soon they go ! P. Broirniii(/, . 

It is the miller's daughter, Tennyson, 



310 

634 

71 

579 

It is the Soul that sees ; the outward eyes, Crabbe 167 

It lies around us like a cloud— Stowe, 544 

It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! — .... Addison 4 

It must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing ! Gould 238 

It's O my heart, my heart, Coolbrith, 153 

It's very hard ! — and so it is, Hood, 736 

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, Inyelow, 307 

It was a blithesome young jongleur J. T. Fields, .... 225 

It was an old, distorted face,— Whitney, 637 

It was a summer evening, P. Southey 520 

It was many and many a year ago, Poe, 423 

It was not in the winter, Hood, 284 

It was not meant, //. Taylor, 571 

It was the winter wild, Milton, 379 

I've drunk good wine Mackity, 757 

I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking, J. Elliot, 210 

I've regretted most sincerely, G. Jfoiu/liton, . . . . 285 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Motherwell , .... 392 

I wait, (Jlemmer, ..... 131 

I waked from slumber at the dead of night, Saryent, 470 

I wandered by the brookside, Lonl Ilouyhton, . . . 287 

I wandered lonely as a cloud, Wordswortli, .... 671 

I was a young fair tree ; At ford 13 

' - . - . • . 228 

63 
601 
849 
465 
10 
160 



1 yfiW not lore ! These sounds have often, Landon, 

I will paint her as I see her ; E. B. Browning , 

I won a noble fame ; Til ton, . . . . 

I wonder, child, if, when you cry, Helen Pich, . 

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, C. G. Possetti, 

I wonder what day of the week — T. B. Aldrich, 

I would not enter on my list of friends, Cowper, ... 



Jerusalem the Golden ! Massey, 367 

John Anderson, my jo, John Burns, .^4 

John Day, he was the biggest man, Hood, 735 

John Doisbins was so captivated, Anonymous, .... 793 

John Gilpin was a citizen Cowper, 711 

Johnson was right. I don't agree to all, Saxe, 778 

Judge not ; the workings of his brain, A. A. Procter, . . . 440 

Just when we think we've fixed the golden mean, . . . Preston, 434 



Keep faith in Love, the cure of every curse, Miller, 374 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; Saxe, 476 

Know then this truth (enough for man to know) . . . Pope, 431 

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, , . . ■ Pope, 430 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



869 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Tennysoii, r;83 

Lady, that ill the prime of earliest youth, Milton, 380 

Lady, when tirst the message came to iiie, Sipnnnds, 560 

Laocooii ! thou great enibodiment, Holland, 275 

Lars Porseiia of Clusiuin Macntdaii, 354 

Late, late, so late ! and dark the night ami oliill ! . . . '/'iinn/snn, 581 

Late or early, home returning, Mitctay, 363 

Launch thy "bark, mariner ! C. li. Soutliey, . . . 514 

Laura, my darling, the roses have blushed, Stcdinan, 535 

Leaning my bosom on a pointed thorn, Trench 605 

Leaves have their time to fall, J/emans, 261 

Let me move slowly through the street, /Sri/unt, 78 

Let me not deem tiiat 1 was made ill vain, /I. ('olvridf/e, .... 134 

Let me not lay the lightest feather's weight SjHtld'uuj, 853 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds, SliaL-cspeare, .... 489 

Let no poet, great or small, Stoddard 541 

Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, A. A. I'rocter, . . . 442 

Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep, Ciimpbell, 116 



Let your truth stand sure, O. Hoiu/hton, 

Life answers, " ]\'o ! If ended here be life F.. Bulwer Lytton, 

Life evermore is fed by death Holland, . . . 

Life ! 1 know not what thou art, JJarbauld, . . . 

Life's mystery, — deep, restless as the ocean, .... Stoirc, .... 

Life's sadly solemn mystery, A. ('art/, . . . 

Life will be gone ere 1 have lived ; C. Bronte, . . . 



286 
838 
273 

28 
544 
122 

54 



IJarerr/al, 825 

"" ' " . 62 

. 143 



Light after darki 

Like a lady's viiiiilrts brown, E. B. BrouniUKj 

Like morning bloiiins that meet the sun, Collier 

Like to the clear in highest sphere, J.odf/c, 340 

Listed into the cause of sin, U'eslei/ 632 

Little inmate, full of mirth, C. Smilli 507 

Lo, from the city's Vieat ami dust, J. J. J'iati, .... 418 

Lo ! here a little volume, but large book, Crashaw, 816 

Lo ! here the best, the worst, the world, Hood, 279 

Lo, it is the even of To-day, — Tnpper, 621 

Loiig waited for, the lingering sun arose ; . . . . . . Moulton 846 

Look at his pretty face for just one minute ! Cndl:, 172 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Crait, 171 

Look off. dear Love, across the sallow sands Lanier, 328 

Look through mine eyes with thine, Te.nni/son, 579 

Look, when a painter would surpass the life, .... •SJiai'enfjeare, .... 488 

Lord, for the erring thought Howells, . . . . . 292 

Lord, living here are we ^ Wither, 662 

Lord, many times I am aweary quite Trench, 603 

Lord, what a busy, restless thing, Vanf/lian, 622 

Lord, what a change within us one short hour, .... Trench, 602 

Lord, when I quit this earthly stage, fVatta, 856 

Lord, with what care bast thou begirt us round, . . . Herbert, 265 

Lo ! that small ottice 1 there tli' incautious guest, . . Cral)be 718 

Love, dearest lady, such as 1 would speak, Hood 284 

Love is too great a happiness, S'. Jiutler, 87 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! Parnell, 407 

Love iiie if I live ! B. W. Procter, . . . 444 

Love that hath us in the net, Tennyson, .579 

Love thy mother, little one ! Hood] 280 

Love took up the glass of Time, Tennyson, 573 

Love, when all these years are silent, Sjiqtford, 529 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed hours, T. Gray 243 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Byron 94 

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend Allen, 16 

]Manhood at last ! and, with its consciousness, .... Simms, 503 

IMaii is to man the sorest, surest ill, E. Yoiinr/, 681 

Man must soar : E. Youny, 683 

Man to the last is but a froward child ; IUkj, rs, 461 

IMaii will not follow where a rule is shown ('ruhhe, 165 

Many are poets who have never penned, Jii/ron 99 

Marion showfed me her wedding gown, /'.('. A'. Dorr, . . • 193 

Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air Cowley, 156 



870 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Lor 



Martial, the things that do attain, 

Maud MuUer, on a suninior's day, . . 

Men of thought, be ui) and stirring, . . 

IMidnight in drear New i:nglan<l. . . . 

Mid the flower-wreathed tombs 1 stand, 

:\Iidwav about the circle of the year, 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 

Bline to the core of the heart, my beauty ! . . 

Minutely trace man's life ; year after year, . . 

Misfortune, 1 am young— my chin is bare, . . 

Month which the warring ancients strangely styled, 

" :More poets yet ! " 1 hear him say, 

Mortality, behold and fear, 

Most perfect attribute of love, that knows, . . 

Mother, in the sunset glow 

Mother of tortures ! persecuting Zeal, .... 
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave, . . . 
Much have 1 travelled in the realms of gold, . 

Music, when soft voices die, 

Muster thy wit, and talk of whatsoever, . . . 
My coachman, in the moonlight there, .... 

My conscience is mv crown ; 

My critic Hammond flatters prettily 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun, . 

JMy days pass pleasantly away ; 

]My fairest child, I have no song to give you, 
My friendly Are, thou blazest clear and bright, . 
My God. I thank Thee, who hast nuide, . . . 

Mv grief or mirth, • 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains. 

My held is like to rend, Willie, 

My liege, your anger can recall your trust, . . 

My life is "like the summer rose, 

My little child, so sweet a voice might wake, . 

My little love, do you remember, 

My little maiden of four years old — 

Ts]\ mind to me a kingdom is, 

Mynheer, blease helb a boor oldt man, .... 
My pictures blacken in their frames, .... 
Myself I force some narrowest passage through, 
My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name, .... 

My soul, there is a country, 

My .soul to-dav, 

Mvsterious Night ! when our first parents knew. 

My uncle Philip, hale old man, 

Mv wind has turned to bitter north, 

My window that looks down the west 



Nae star was glintin' out aboon, 

Nature, in zeal for human amity 

Kay, Lord, not thus ! white lilies in the spring, 

Nay, snule not at my sullen brow 

Nay, soul, though near to dying, do not this ! 
Nay, thank me not again for those, .... 

Near a small village in the West 

Nearer, mv God, to thee. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled 

Never any more 

New being is from being ceased ; 

No blank, no trifle. Nature made, or meant, . 

No coward soul is mine 

No ; I shall pass into the jNIorning Land, . . 
No man e'er found a happy life by chance ; . 
None are unhappy ; all have cause to smile, . 
Xoou, — and the northwest sweeps the empty road, 
Nor cold nor stern, my soul ! yet 1 detest. 
Nor force uor fraud shall simder us ! O ye — 
Nor reason, nor affection, no, uor both, . . 



Knrl of Stirrei/ 
J. G. fVhittici 
MacKuii, 
Broirneil, . 
Higginson, . 
Suxton, . . 
II. K. White, 
Iloiff, . . 
Crait, . . 
Crabhe. . . 
H. K. White 
Jackson. 
iJobson, 
BedHinniif, . 
I're.stim,. . 
Butts, . . 
Thnmson, . 
Teinnison, . 
Keats, . . 
Shi-JUy, . . 



russell, . 
Lowell, . 
Houthu-ell . 
E. B. Broiniing 
Byron, . . 
Saxe, . . 
Kingsley, . 
R. isout'hey, 
A. A. Procter. 
A. T. Del ere 
Keats, . . 
Mothenrell, 
K. B.Liitto-n, 
1!. II. Wilde. 
S. M. B. I'iat 
It. B. Lytton, 
Whitney, . 
Dyer, . . 



C. F. Adams 

Land or, . . 

Trench. . . 

Byron, . . 

V'auylian, . 

Bead, . . 

B. White. . 

Stoddard, . 

Clouijli. . . 

Wldtnty, . 

E. Cook, . 



E. Younq, . 
O. Wilde. . 

Byron , . . 
s'ymonds, . 
Lanilor, . . 
I'raed, . . 
S. F. Adams, 
Goldsmith, 
11. ISrotrniiHj 
tiavage, . . 
E. Younq, . 
E. Bronte, . 
M. Collins, 
E. Young, . 
E. Young, . 
Morris, . . 
S. T. Coleridgt 
Dohell. ■ . . ■ . 
E. Young, . . 



551 
643 
362 

59 
269 
852 
634 
289 
171 
168 
636 
831 
722 

37 
■iU 

89 
595 
585 
314 
492 
851 
751 
523 
689 
105 
474 
321 



440 
184 
312 
391 
839 
649 
421 
840 
638 
819 
686 
328 
605 
95 
623 
456 
634 
780 
131 
637 



150 
678 
648 

:oo 

561 
327 
771 

234 
68 
472 
680 
54 
144 
684 
684 
389 
710 
189 
0S3 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



171 



No song of a soldier riding down, 

No sound of life was coming, 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, . 
Not a kiss iu life ; but one kiss, at life's end. 
Not from the whole wide world I choose thee, 
Nothing hut leaves ; the spirit grieves, . . . 
Nothing resting in its own completeness, . . 
Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, 

Not iu a moment drops the rose, 

,Not made by worth, nor marred by flaw, . . 
No, Tom, you may banter as much as you please ; 
Not profitless the" game, even when we lose, . . 
Nought is there under heaven's wide hollowuess, 
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 
Now baud ye there, ye're oiit o' sight, . . . 
Now is my love all ready forth to come ; . . 
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. 
Now stir the tire, and close the shutters fast, 
Now summer finds her iserfect prime ! . . . 
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne, 
Now we're afloat upon the tropic sea ; . . 

O bairn, when I am dead 

O beautiful new life within my bosom, . . 
O blithe new-comer ! I have heard, . . . 
October turned my maple leaves to gold ; . 
O dark mysterious stream, 1 sit by thee, 
O'er waves that murmur ever nigh, . . . 
O'er wayward rhildhuod would'st thou hold firm rule, 
O faint, delicious spring-time violet, . . . . 
O fair midspring, besung so oft and oft, . . 
Of all the attributes'whose starry rays, . . . 
Of all the mysteries wherethrough we move. 
Of all the streams that seek the sea, .... 
. Of all the thoughts of God that are, .... 
Of all the woodland flowers of earlier spring, 
Of mortal glory O soon darkened ray ! . . . 
Of Nelson audthe North, ........ 

Of other men I know no jealousy 

Often I have heard it said, 

Often the painful present is comforted, . . 
Oft have 1 walked these woodland paths, . . 

Oft in the stilly night, 

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend, . . 
Oft see we in the garish round of day, . . . 

O gentle, gentle suiiinier rain, 

O gift of God ! O perfect day ; 

O grandly flowing Kiver ! 

OGod ! if this indeiMll)!' all, 

O God ! whose thuUiihls are brightest light, . 
O God, whose tluuiiier shakes the sky, . . . 

Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green 

O happiest lie, whose riper years retain, . . 

O happy glow, O sun-bathed tree 

Oh, beautiful green grass ! Earth-covering fair 
Oh, deem not they are blest alone, .... 
Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love. 

Oh, glad am I that I was born ! 

Oh, grief that wring'st mine eyes with tears. 
Oh, grievous folly ! to heap up estate, . . . 
Oh ! happiest thou, who from the sliining height. 
Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
O highest, strongest, sweetest woman-soul ! . . 
Oh, if the selfish knew how much they lost, . . 

Oh, it is hard to work for God, 

Oh ! leave the past to bury its own dead ; . . . 

Oh, leave thyself to God ! 

Oh, let me come to Thee in this wild way, . . 



O'Reilbj, 399 

Joiin-, 834 

Wolfr 665 

Uuiiiier 808 

GiUhr, 232 

Akerman, 8 

A. A. Procter, ... 443 

]V. A. Butler, ... 701 

E. 1>. Proctor, ... 448 

Winter, ...... 660 

Cniiirli, 719 

Shiuns, 502 

/,'. SjK'n.ft-r 526 

A/liiiqham, .... 18 

Burn's 698 

E. Spenser, .... 524 

Tennyson, 578 

Cou-per 158 

E. I). I'roctor, ... 446 

Milton, 378 

Trench 606 

Sargent 471 

Buchanan, 807 

Hopkins, 829 

Wordsicorth, .... 676 

T. B. Aid rich, ... 12 

Prentice 847 

S. H. Pal f re I/, ... 847 

S. T. Coleridge, ... 140 

Stonj, 543 

If. Morris, .... 390 

Preston, 435 

Sipnonds, 560 

E. D. Proctor, ... 447 

E. B. Browning, . . 60 

Hai/ne, 257 

Uriimmond, .... 198 

r. Campbell, .... 114 

Gilder, 233 

Landor, 327 

Tapper 620 

Lai(/hton, 324 

Moore, 386 

Pof/ers, 464 

Ecii/, 222 

Bennett 38 

If. ir. Lonr/fellow, . . 345 

Hau, ..'.".... 254 

A. 'Bronte', 53 

Eabcr, 216 

Chiitterton, .... 810 

Dickens, 187 

J. T. Fields, .... 226 

Webster, 631 

Mackag, 365 

Bnian't, 72 

W'illiams, 650 

Spoiford, 531 

llon-e 200 

Thomson, 596 

A]iphton, 19 

Beottie, 34 

Gilder 231 

Uoqers, 461 

Faber, 216 

Blunt 802 

Burbidoe 808 

S. M. B. Piatt, . . . 421 



872 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Oh, Life, I breathe thee in the breeze, Bryant, . . 

Oh, listen to the howling sea, Curtis, . . 

Oh, long the weary vigils since you left me — . . . . Moid ton, . 

Oh, many are the poets that are sown, U'ordsicorth, 

Oh, miserable comfort ! Loss is loss, Tnntch, . . 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill, . . . JJi/ron, . . 

Oh ! never did a mighty truth prevail, ....... Talfourd, . 

Oh ! not in strange portentous way Cootidge, . 

O hour of all hours, the most blessed upon earth, . . . It. B. Lytton, . 

Oh ! say can you see by the dawn's early light, .... Key, . . . 

Oh, the broom, the yellow broom ! .'....... M. How'itt, . 

Oh, the earth and the air ! McKay, . . 

Oh, the green things growing, Crailc, . . 

Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart, Moore. . . 

Oh, the soul-liaunting shadows, J. T. Fields, 

Oh ! the ^\orld gives little of love or light, E. Cook, 

Oh, to be back in the cool summer shadow, P. Cary, 

Oh ! watch you well by daylight, . Loiter, . . 

Oh ! welcome, Bniliie, . . 

Oh, what shall I do, dear, Clemmcr, . 

Oh ! when 'tis summer weather, Boivlcs, . . 

"Oh, where hae ye been, my ain Johnnie?" .... Ome, . . . 

Oh, who Cabul's sweet region may behold Micliell, 

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame, Baillie, . . 

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? . . . Kno.r, . . 

Oh, yet we trust that, somehow, good, Tennyson, . 

Oh ! yield not, thou sad one, to sighs, Lover, . . 

O lassie ayont the hill ! Macdonald, 

Old frienils and dear ! it were ungentle rhyme, . . . . H. H. Browned, 

Old house, how desolate thy life ! Hiram llich. 

Old neighbor, for how many a year, Spofford, 

O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Addison. 

O little feet ! that such long years, H. W. Longfellon 

love, come back, across tlie weary way, Marston, . 

O Love Divine, that stoopedst to share Holmes, . . 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! . . . Allini/lutm, 

O loving God of Nature ! . . . Miller, . . 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home, Kinqslei/, . 

O may Ijoin the choir invisible, G. Eliot. 

O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, Goldsmith, 

O mystic, mighty flower whose frail white leaves, . . Barr, . . 

One adequate support irordsworth. 

Once, in the flight of ages past, Montgomery, 

Once, looking from a window on a land Gilder, . . 

Once on a time the days of the week, CrancJi, . . 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, .... Hmcells, 

Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe, . . . 

One by one the sands are flowing . ... A. A. Procter, 

One more unfortunate, Hood, . . 

One reads to me JIacaulay's "Lays," ....... Gusiafson. . 

One sujnmer day, when liirds flew high, M. M. Bodge, 

One sweetly solemn thouiiht P. Cary, 

One word is too often profaned .Shellei/.'. . 

On Linden, when the sun was low, Campbell, . 

Only a little child, Haqeman, . 

Only a tender little thing, Spofford, . 

Only waiting till the shadows, Mace, . . 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell, .... If'illi's, . . 

On the eighth day of jNIaroh it was, some people say, . Lover, . . 

On the Kialto Bridge we stand ; Howells, 

On the iJiiihi Kulm we stood, Holland, 

On the Salibath-day A.Smith, . 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! Perciral, . 

On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, . . . S.Johnson, 

Open the gates of the Temple ; Mace, . . 

O pilgrim, comes the night so fast? Thaxter, . 

O popular applause ! wluit heart of man, Cowper, . . 

O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see, 11. Southey, 

O Science, whose footsteps wander, Fawcett, 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



873 



O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, . . ...... 

O sovereign Master ! stern and splendid power, 
O still, white face of perfect peace, .... 

O tenderly the hiiughty day 

O the generations old, 

O the splendor of the city, 

O Thou, bv Nature taught, ....... 

O Thou, great Friend to all the sons of men, 

O Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear ! . . 

O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay, . 

O treacherous conscience ! while she seems to sleep, 

O trifling tasks so often done . 

Our birth is hut asleep and a forgetting, . . 
Our Fatherland ! and woukVst thou know, . 
Our funeral tears from different causes rise, , 

Our (iod is all we boast below 

Our life is nothing but a winter's day ; . . . 
Our life is twofold ! Sleep hath its own world, 
Our old brown homestead reared its walls, . 
Our old colonial town is new with May : . . 
Our revels now are ended ; these our actors, 
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, . . . 

Out of the deep.'i of heaven, 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, .... 
Out of the thousand verses you have writ, 
Outside the mad sea ravens for its prey — . . 

Out upon it ! 1 have loved, 

Over my window the ivy climbs, ..... 

O weathercock on the village spire 

O winter, wilt thou never, never go ? . . . . 

O world 

O ye tears ! O ye tears ! that have long refused to flow, 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings 

O youth of the world, 



S. T. Coleridge 
Tha.Tfer, . . 
J). JL Ooodale, 

Emerson, . . 
J. G. WhUtier, 
E. D. Proctor, 
W. Collins, 
Parker, , . . 
Moore, . . . 
Bowles, . . . 
E. Yoiurg, . . 
Allen, . . . 
Woi'clsworth, . 
Lover, . . . 
E. Younf/, . . 
Goldsmith, 
Quarles, . . 
Byron, . . . 
P. Cary, . . 
Ahhey, . . . 
Slidkespeare, . 
K. P. Osgood, 
iStoddart/, . . 
Ticliwr, . . 
T. B. Aldrich. 
Movlton, . . 
Slid:! in f/, . . 
M. M. Dvdqe 
H. W. Loniife. 

D. Gruji, ' . . 

E. B. linncning, 
MucLinj, . . 
Aiken, . . . 
A. Fields, . . 



lloiv. 



Pack clouds away, and welcome day, . . 
Paddy I\IcCabe was dying one day, . . . 

Pain and pleasure both decay, 

Pain is no longer pain when it is past, . . 

Pardon the faults in me, 

Passionate, stormy ocean, 

Passions are likened best to floods, . . . 
Pause not to dream of the future before us, 
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, . . . 
Persia ! time-honored land ! who looks on thee, 
Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasiu-es seem ; 
Poet, whose sunny span of fruitful years, . . 

Poor lone Hannah, 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, . . 
Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, 

Praver is the soul's sincere desire, 

" Pray, what do they do at the Springs ?" . . 
Press on ! there's no such word as fail ! . . 
Princes ! and you most valorous, .... 
Prouil mountain giant, whose majestic face, . 
Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control, . 
Purple, the passionate color, ...... 



Heytvood, ..... 268 

Lover, 748 

Stoddard 542 

Preston, 435 

C. G. Possctti, . . . 466 

Hopkins, 828 

Paleiqh, 452 

F. S.' Osgood, ... 402 

Tenmison, .575 

Mich'ell, 370 

Blanchard, .... 801 

Bunner 807 

Larcom, 320 

Shakespeare, .... 489 

G. P. Luthrop, ... 336 
Montgomery, .... 383 

Saxe 776 

Benjamin 799 

Dobson, .190 

Boker, 43 

Kemnan, 396 

F. Smith, 508 



Quaint blossoms with the old fantastic name. 
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, . . . 



Jackson 832 

Jonson, 310 



Pat-tat it went upon the lion's chin, . . 

Rattle the window, winds, . 

Ked leaf, gold leaf 

Remember Him, the only One 

Remember me when I am gone away, . . 
" Repine not, O my sou ! " the old man replied, 



Hnod, . . . 


. . 738 




. . .541 


Huti'hinson. . 


. . 830 


Lnrjririis, . . 


. . 338 


C. G. Hossetti, 


. . 465 


Jl. Southeij, . 


. . 516 



874 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Restless forms of living light, 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 

Rivers that roll most musical in song, 

Sacred and secret hand ! 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 

Sad is the thought of sunniest days, 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 

Sauntering hither on listless wings 

Say over again and yet once over again, 

Say, why are beauties jn-aised and honored most, . . . 

Say why was man so eminently raised, 

Say, ye opprest by some fantastic woes, 

Scarce had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers, . . 
Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, . . . 
Sea-king's daughter from over the sea, ....... 

Seated one day at the organ 

See how the orient dew, 

Seek not to walk by borrowed light, 

See you yonder castle stately ? 

Send down Thy winged angel, God ! 

September waves his golden-rod, 

Serve God and be cheerful. The motto 

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall, . . 
She did not sigh for death, nor make sad moan, . . . 

She <hvelt among the vmtrodden ways, 

She had lost many children now, 

" She is dead ! " they said to him, 

She is not fair to outward view, 

She is the east just ready for the sun, 

She might have known it in the earlier spring, . . . . 
She's empty : hark ! she sounds : there's nothing there. 

She's gone to dwell in heaven, my lassie 

She sitteth there a mourner, 

She walks in beauty, like the night, 

She was a phantom of delight, 

She was not white nor brown, 

Shut in a close and dreary sleep, 

Sliut, shut the door, good John ! 

Since all that is not heaven must fade, 

Since there is no help, come, let us kiss and part, . . . 

Side by side rise the two great cities 

Sing again the song you sung, 

Singing tlu'ough the forests, 

Sing, poet, 'tis a merry world, 

Slave of the dark and'dirty mine ! 

Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? 

Sleep, babe, tlie honeyed sleep of innocence ! . . . . 

Sleeping, 1 dreamed tliat thou wast mine, 

Sleep on, my love, in tliy cold bed, 

Sleep. slee|i' to-day, tormenting cares 

Sleep sweetly in your. humble graves, 

Slowly 1 circle tlie dim, dizzy stair, 

Slowly thy flowing tide, 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 

Small was thy share of all this world's delight, . . . . 

Smiles on past .Aiisfortune's brow, 

So close we are, and yet so far apart, 

So fair the sun rose yestermorn 

Soft, brown, snuling eyes 

Softly woo away her breath 

Soft on tlie sunset sky, 

So here hath been dawning anotlier blue day ! . . . . 

Soldier, statesman, scholar, friend, 

Solitude ! Life is inviolate solitude ; 

So love is dead that has been quick so long ! 

Some are laughing, some are weeping ; 

Some day ; some day of days, threading the streets, . . 
Some fairy spirit with liis wand, 



ff. Coleridge, .... 133 

Tennyson, 576 

Parsons, 408 

Vivughan, 623 

A. T. De Vere. . . . 1K6 

Hay -253 

U. W. TMnyfellow, . . 341 

Bret Harte, .... 252 

E. B. Broioninf/, . . 64 

Pope, ....'... 768 

A ken Hide, 7 

Crabbe, 165 

P. SoufUey, .... 517 

Wordsirorth, .... 675 

Tennijson, 582 

A. A. Procter, ... 441 

Marrelt, 367 

A. Can/, 121 

A. B. Bensel, .... 800 

B. ir. Procter, ... 445 
Hutchinson, .... 830 

Xewell, 395 

Stedman, 535 

Boyle, 805 

Wordsn-orth, .... 672 

Landon, 326 

E. Arnold 20 

H. Colerid(je, .... 134 

Bed den, 848 

Banner, 808 

Quarles, 450 

CunnuKiUttm, .... 180 

M. M. bodye, ... 191 

Byron, 93 

Wordsivorth, .... 674 

E. B. Browning. . . 67 

S. M. B. Piatt, . . . 420 

Pojje 765 

Keble, 316 

Drayton, 198 

Hayeman 247 

Curtis, 181 

Saxe 779 

A. timith, 505 

Leyden 339 

Morris 389 

Holland, 274 

Stedman, 536 

Kinq, 836 

Barlmuld, 798 

Timrod, 855 

K. L. Bates .32 

n. Southey 522 

Holmes 278 

Bunncr, 808 

T. Gray 243 

Mnrsttm, 843 

Coolbrith, 1.54 

('ranch, 176 

B. U\ Procter, ... 446 

E. Goodale 237 

Carli/le, 118 

Bolton 805 



A. Cnry, 



119 



Moulton, 846 

('. a. Hosselti, ... 405 

J'erri/ 416 

O. P. Lathrop, ... 334 



Some feelings are to mortals given, Scott, 478 

Some flowers are withered, and some joys have died ; . Jacksaii, K31 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, ..... Cowper, 716 

Some great misfortune to portend, Swiff, 781 

Some men employ their health, au ugly trick, .... Coicpa; 715 

Some sigh for this and that Hood, 7.38 

Something so human hearted, Ticknor 854 

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, . M. R. Siiiith, . . . . 513 

Somewhere on this earthly planet, Timrod 855 

Somewhere — somewhere a happy clime there is, . . . Saxe, 474 

Somewhere 'tis told that in an Eastern land, .... Mace 361 

So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish E. Yauiig, 679 

Soul of my soul impart Sar;/ent, I . . . . 469 

Sound asleep ! no sigh can reach, Pn'scott 434 

Speak tenderly ! "For he is dead," we say, M. M. Dodrje, ... 191 

Spiiiiior of the silken snare, Cornwell, ' 815 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou, . . . Bryant 76 

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty ! .... Boker 46 

Stand up, erect ! Thou hast the form, Gal/iKjIwr 820 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest //. W'. Lonyfdloir, . . 342 

Stay wherever you will, Dobell, 189 

Stay yet a little longer in the sky A. Cary, 121 

Still 1 behold him, every thought employed, Crabbe 166 

Still sits the school-house by the road, J. G. If'liittier, . . . 640 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, Jonson, ...... 310 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ! Willis 650 

Strive not to say the whole ! the poet in his art, . . . Story, 543 

Strive : yet I do not promise, A. A. Procter, ... 443 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Tennyson 574 

Sum up at night, what thou hast done by day ; . . . . Herbert, 26-1 

Sun of the moral world ! effulgent source Barlow, 29 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! Byron, 92 

Sunshine and silence on the Col de Balm ! Haver(/al 826 

Suppose the dreaded messenger of death, Jennison, 832 

Supreme, all-wise, eternal Potentate ! Prior, 439 

Supreme among a race of gods he stands, JV. If. Gay, .... 820 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Tennyson, 578 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Herbert 265 

Sweeter than voices in the scented hay BourdiUon, .... 51 

Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope ! Kimball 319 

Sweet falsehoods, fare ye well ! //.//. Jlrownell, ... 58 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies. Barbauld, 28 

Sweet sylvan lake, in memory's gold Street 547 

Sweet winter roses, stainless as the snow, ...... Laiyhton, 32-1 

Take the dead Christ to my chamber, Hoioe, 291 

Taste the sweetness of delaying, Bushnell, 86 

Teach me, my God and King, Herbert, 827 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, .... Tenni/son 577 

Tears wash away the atoms in the eye, Cran'ch 174 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Lovehtcc 346 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light, Shellei;, 493 

Tell me, ye winged winds Mackni/, 366 

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form Barker, 29 

Tciider-handfd stroke a nettle Hill, 827 

That precious, iiriceless gift, a soul Si/monds, 558 

That season which all other men regret Simins, 503 

That son of Italy who tried to blow, M. Arnold, .... 25 

That which her slender waist confined Waller, . ' 628 

The age is gone o'er p. n. I'l/t/on 752 

The angels come, the angels go, J. J. I'iiitt 418 

Tlie angels kiss her while she sleeps, A. T. Del 'ere. . . . 185 

The apples are ripe in the orchard, Winter, ...... 659 

The artist who this idol wrought, Sheller/ 495 

The banker, well known P. B. Li/tlon 7,'53 

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul, .... Jtrooks.' 56 

The beast was sturdy, large, and tall, ,s'. Hiitler 700 

The beautiful color — the color of gold ! /■'. Smitli', 508 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies Moore, 386 



876 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



The birds are mute, the bloom is fled, Sargent, . . 

The blessed damozel leaned out, D. O. Jlossetti, 

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter, . . Talfourd, , . 

The blind at an easel, the i)alsied with a graver, . . . Tapper, . . . 

The branches arch and shape a pleasant bower, . . . Street, . . . 

The bi-eaking waves dashed high, Hemans, . . 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, . . . Ver;/, .... 

The castled crag of Drachenl'els, Byron, . . . 

The chamber where the good man meets bis fate, . . . E. Young, . . 

The chrysalid with rapture stirs ; Hopkitisj . . 

The circle formed, we sit in silent state, Cotrper, . . . 

The conference-meeting through at last Stedman, . . 

Tlie crimson sunset faded into gray, Thaxter, . . 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, T. Gray, . . 

The curtain of the dark, Larcom, . . . 

The day and night are symbols of creation, J. B. ClleiUy, 

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled, Holland, . . 

The dead leaves, their rich mosaics, S. Longfelloir, 

The doors are all wide open ; at the gate, H. W. Longfelloir, 

The dove did lend me wings Blunt, . .' . 

The eagle nestles near the sun ! J.J. Piatt, . . 

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, .... Voirper, ... 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, S. T. Coleridge, 

The fateful hour, when death stood by, B. Taylor, . . 

The fisherman «ades in the surges ; B. Taylor, . . 

The fountains mingle with the river, Shelley, . . . 

The fresh May morning's earliest light, Street, . . . 

The frugal snail with forecast of repose, Lamb, ... 

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, . . . . C. Smith, . . 

The glories of our birth and state, Shirley, . . . 

The grave but ends the struggle ! Sinims, . . . 

The liautl that wore thee smooth is cold, Bloomjield, 

The harp at Nature's advent, strung, J. G. Whittier, 

The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools ! . . . . Bogers, . . . 

The honey-bee that wanders all day long, Bo'tta, . . . 

The hours on the old piazza, Story, . . . 

The human heart cannot sustain, Sir Henry Taylor, 

Q'heir preciousness in absence is proved, Tupj)er, . . . 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Byro7i, . . . 

The kindly words that rise within the heart, . . . . J. B. O'lleilly, 

The little gate Avas reached at last, Lowell, . . . 

The lost days of my life until to-day I). G. Ilossetti, 

The loving poor ! — So envy calls, Ji. Elliott, . . 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash, J'ead, . . . 

The matron at her mirror, Bayly, . . . 

The mellow year is hasting to its close ; H. Coleridge, . 

The midges dance aboon the burn ; Tannahill', 

The more we live, more brief appear, Camphell, . . 

The Moth's kiss, first ! 7?. Browning, . 

Then before all they stand, —the holy vow, Bogers, . . . 

Then gently scan your brother man, Bimi.i, . . . 

Then, lo ! the sainted ^Monitor is born Crabbe, . . . 

The night-wind sweeps its viewless lyre, Fmrcett, . . 

The night has a thousand eyes, Bourdillon, 

The palace with its splendid dome, G. Houghton, . 

Tlie i)ilgrim and stranger, who, through the day, . . . K. H. Whittier, 

The Pilgrim Fathers — where arc they? ...... Pierponf, . . 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, J. G. Whittier, 

The jilace seemed new and strange as death, .... F.B. Jiroicning, 

Tlic plum' where soon I think to lie, Landor, . . . 

The jilcasant grounds are greenly turfed and graded ; . Troicbridge, . 

The pods pour wine ; and when 'tis new, all decry it ; . B. B. Lyt'ton, . 

The poplars are felled ; farewell to the shade, .... Cmvper, . . . 

The purple grapes hang ready for the kiss, T. S. Collier, . 

The quality of mercy is not strained Shakespeare,. 

The rain has ceased, and in my room, T. B. Aldrich, 

The rain is o'er. How dense ."ind bright, A. Norton, . . 

Till' rain, the desolate rain ! . Hayne, . . . 

The rapid years drag by, and bring not here, .... Mann, . . . 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



877 



There are a number of us creep, . . . . • . • . . 

There are gains for all our losses, 

There came a breath, out of a distant time, 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, . . . . 

ITiere is a beauty of the reason, 

There is a land, "of every land the pride, 

There is a land of pure delight, 

There is a pleasure in tlie pathless woods, 

There is a room, a stately room, . 

There is but one thing tliat still harks me back, . . . 

There is May in books forever : 

There is no comfort underneath the sun, 

There is no day so dark ^ . 

"There is no ciod," the foolish saith, ... . . . 

There is no laughter in the natural world, . . . . . 

There is no remedy for time misspent ; 

There is nothing new under the sun ; 

There'll come a day when the supremest splendor, . . 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

There's a story that's old, 

There's never an always cloudless sky 

There's no dew left on'the daisies and clover, . . . . 

There was a little, very little, 

There was a sound of revelry by night 

There was a time when death and 1, 

There was once a gentle time, . 

There were three sailors of Bristol City, 

The rich man's son inherits lands, 

The robin sings iu the elm ; 

The roof of thickest covert, 

The room is swept and garnished for thy sake 

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses graj% . . 

The sea goes up, the sky comes down, 

The sea is decked with bars of gray 

The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er, . . . . 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The self of so long ago, 

These words the poet heard in Paradise, 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 

The skies are blue above my head, 

The sky is laced with titf ul red, 

The silver trumpets rang across the dome ; 

The soul hath its feelers^ cobwebs floating on the wind. 

The speckled sky is dim with snow, 

The splendor falls on castle walls, 

The storm-wind moans through branches bare.; . . . 

The summer coaxed me to be glad, 

The summer dawn's reflected hue, 

The sunnner day is clost'd — the sun is set : 

The summer-tide swells high and full ; 

The suu has gone down o'er the lofty Benlomond,. . . 

The suu has kissed the violet sea, 

The sun of life has crossed the line ; 

The sun's bright orb, declining all serene 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 

The sweetest sound our whole year round 

The sweets of converse and society, 

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold, 

The tide slips up the silver sand, 

The time of gifts has come again, 

The Temple of the Lord stotnl open Avide, 

The tree of deepest root is found, ......... 

The twentieth year is well nigh past, 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 

The unlettereil Christian, who believes iu gross, . . . 

The violet in her greenwood bower, 

The violet loves a sunny bank, 

The weakness of accident is strong, 

The western waves of ebbing day, 



Watts, 855 

Stoddard, 540 

Jennisoii 832 

CampheU, 112 

Tiipper, 610 

Montgomery, .... 382 

Watts, 856 

Bi/ron, 100 

B. R. Don; .... 818 
Sh- H. Taylor, ... 570 

Hunt 301 

Blunt, 803 

Thaxter, 586 

E. B. Brouming, . . 65 

Blunt, 803 

Sir A. De Vere, ... 184 

Gilder 231 

Preston, 436 

Mackay, 363 

C. F. Adams, .... 685 

Savage, 473 

Tngelow 301 

Mac hay 758 

Byron ^ 106 

Bradley, 52 

Croly 178 

Thackeray 783 

Lowell. 348 

Howells, 292 

Milton, 380 

Kimball 320 

Boqers, 464 

G.P. Lathrop, ... 335 

O. Wilde, 648 

Waller, 628 

B. W. Procter, ... 444 

Trowbridge, .... 607 

H. W. Longfellow, . . 837 

Willis, 653 

Hail 253 

O. 'Wilde, 648 

O. Wilde, 647 

Tupper 615 

Trowbridge, .... 608 

Tennyson 577 

Collier, 142 

Annan, 797 

Scott 476 

Bryant 80 

Hopkins 829 

Tannahill, .... 563 

Lanier, 329 

Whitney 636 

Falconer, 218 

Scott 480 

Stedman, ,538 

Sir If. Taylor, . . . 571 

a. Wilde 648 

Hutchinson, .... 830 

J. O. Whittier, ... 646 

Tilton, 601 

Thrale, 784 

Cowper, 163 

Wellni, 856 

Dnjden 205 

Scott, 481 

B. Tail lor, 565 

Tapper 677 

Scott, o . 477 



878 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



The white reflection of the sloop's great sail, .... 

The winds behind me in the thicliet sigh 

Tlie winds that once the Argo bore, 

Tlie wisest of the wise, 

Tlie woman was old and ragged and gray 

Tlie worlcs my calling doth \n-i >i)ose, 

The world goes up and the world goes down 

The world is still deceived with ornament, 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, .... 
The wretch condemned with life to part, ••.... 

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, 

They are all goiie into the world of light, 

They come ! tlie merry summer months of beauty, song, 

and flowei's 

The years have linings just as goblets do : 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair 

They seemed to those who saw them meet, 

They sin who tell us love can die, 

They told me in my earlier years 

They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt ; 

Tliey whose hearts are whole and strong 

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone, . . . 
Think not your duty done wlien, sad and tearful, . . . 

This child, so lovely and cherub-like, 

This circulating principle of life 

Tliis is Goethe, with a forehead, 

This is that hill of awe, 

This is where the roses grew, 

This man whose homely face ynu look upon, 

This name of mine the "sun may steal away, 

Tliis only grant me, that my means may lie, 

This sweet child that hath climbed upon my knee, . . 
This tempest sweeps the Atlantic ! — Nevasink, . . . 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 

Those we love truly never die, 

'■ Thou and 1 ! " 

Thou art not dead ; thou art not gone to dust ; . . . . 

Tliou art, O God ! the life and light, 

Thou art with me, here, upon the banks 

Thou, Bavaria's bro\\n-eyed daughter, 

Thou blossom bright with Autumn dew, 

Thou dear, misunderstood, maligned Delay, 

Tliou first, l)est friend that heaven assigns below, . . . 

ThouLili absent long 

Till ■ugh Reason through Faith's mysteries see, . . . . 

Thouglit is deeper than all speech, 

Though wronged, not harsh my answer ! 

Thougli you should come again to-morrow 

Thou goest : to what distant place, 

Thou happy, happy elf ! 

Thou hast sworn by thy (iod, my Jeanie, 

Thou knowest, O my Father ! Why should I, .... 

Thou ling'ring star,' with less'niiig ray, 

Thou lone companion of the spectred night 

Thou miglilier than Manoah's son, ........ 

Thou Shalt have sun and shower from heaven above, . 

Tliou unrelenting Past ! 

Thou whose birth on earth, 

Three fishers went sailing away to the West 

Tliree, only three, my darling 

Three poets in three distant ages born, 

Three roses, wan as moonlight and weighed down, . . 
Tliree weeks to-day had old Doctor Drollhead, .... 

Q'hrough her forced, abnormal quiet, 

Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way, . . . 

Through the dark path, o'er which I tread, 

Thus doth beauty dwell, 

Thus is it over all the earth ! 

Thy bright brief day knew no decline— 



Thaxfer, 587 

Symonds 559 

E. D. Proctor, ... 448 

Lantlor, 743 

Brine, 806 

Winter, C62 

Kinfisley. .'521 

Sluikfifpeari' 485 

Jf '(ird.twort/i, .... ()75 

Goldsmith, .... 237 

I'ierpont, 764 

J'au(/han, 621 

Motherwell, .... 304 

C. F. Bates 31 

Perni 414 

Lord Houqhton, ... 288 

P. Soulhe'y, .... 517 

E. Cook 150 

iM. M. Dodge, .... 192 

Larcom, ,333 

jr/iieler, 633 

Piieliardmn 4.58 

Poi/vrs, 461 

Sir H. Tai/lor, ... 570 

ir. A. Butler, ... 88 

Bret Harte, .... 252 

Allen, 15 

Stoddard, 540 

G. Houghton, .... 285 

Cowley, 1.55 

Pealf, 457 

Simmit 503 

Moore .387 

J. B. O'Peilhi, ... 400 

Tilton, ..'.... 599 

B. Taylor, 567 

Moore, 387 

Wordsu-orth 667 

B. Taylor, 569 

Bri/ant, 77 

Sa'xton, 852 

Pofjers 403 

Wordsworth, .... 666 

Cou'ley, 156 

Cranch, 175 

Simms, ...... 503 

S. T. Coleridge, ... 710 

Si/monds, 559 

liood, 734 

Cunningham, .... 179 

J. C. R". Dorr, ... 195 

Biirns 82 

Wolcot, 664 

Tupper 616 

Stedman 539 

Bryant 73 

Swinhurne, .... 556 

Kingsley, 321 

Holme, 276 

Dry den, 204 

T. B. Aldrich, ... 10 

Anonymous 796 

Halpme, 726 

Gilder 233 

Boker, 804 

Akenside 7 

Holland, 273 

Moir, 381 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



879 



Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, Blake, . . 

Till the slow davliglit pale, Greenwell, . 

Time, hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, ShaLt'sjyeare, 

Time] in advance, behind him hides his wings, , . . . E. Young, . 

Tincture or svrup, lotion, drop, or pill, Crahhc, . . 

Tired of play"! tired of play ! JFil/is, . . 

'Tis a fearfvil night in the winter time, Eastman, . 

'Tis all a great show f"«7/. • • • 

'Tis a story told bv Kalidasa, — Bostiricl; . 

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ;....£'. Youii;/, . 

'Tis not stringing rhymes together, Hanri/al, . 

'Tis said that when the nightingale Jiobcrtgon, . 

'Tis self whereby we suffer, Symoiids, . 

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet, S. T. Coleridge, 

'Tis the part of a coward to brood, Hayne, . . 

'Tis time this heai-t should be unmoved, ...... Byron, . . 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes, Byron, . . 

To be, or not to be, that is the question, — SliaLexpeare, 

To-dav the sunshine freely showers, Prescotf, . 

To him who, in the love of Kature holds, Bryant, . . . 

Toiling across the Mer de Glace, T. B. Aldrich, 

Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train Stgourney, 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — ...... Spencer, . . 

To learning's second seats we now proceed Crabbe, . . 

Toll, tower and minster, toll, H. H. Brovnell, 

To Love in my heart, 1 exclaimed, t'other morning, . . Ca^nphell, 

To miry places me the hunters drive, Trench, . 

To-morrow has trouble to lend, Kimball, 

To Thee, fair Freedom, 1 retire SJienstone, 

Touch us gently. Time, B. W. Procter, 

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Chancer, 

Tread lightly, she is near, . . . ■ O. Wilde. 

Tread softlv! bow the head— C. B. Sonthey, 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky, Campbell, . 

True A\it is nature to advantage th-essed, Pope. . . . 

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, iJryden, . . 

'Twas August, and the tierce sun overhead, M. Arnold, 

'Twas in .tune"s bright and glowing prime, ..... Street, . . 

'Twas May ! the spring with magic bloom Street. . . 

'Twas the last tight at Fredericksburg, — Gassaway,. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, H. W. Longfelloic, 

Two children, in two neighbor villages Tennyson, 

Two hands upon the breast, Craih\ . 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, .... Byrom, . 

Two maidens listening to the sea — Webster, 

Two things love can do, Phelps, . 

Two travellers of conceited cast, Merrick, 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, Perry, . 



Under the coffin-lid there are roses : . . . . 

Under the lindens lately sat, 

Unfading Hope ! when "life's last embers burn. 
Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years, . 
Uidike those feeble gales of praise, .... 
Unusual darkness broods ; and growing, gains. 
Up from the meadows rich with corn, . . . 
Up from the south at break of day, .... 

Upon the sadness of the sea 

Upon the white sea sand, 

Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen, 



S. M. B. Piatt, 

Landor, . 
Campbell, 
Shelley, . 
Moore, . 
Thomson, 
J. G. Whittier, 
Bead, . 
Thaxter, 
Brotcn, . 

Wyatt, . 



A'erily the fancy may be false, Tapper, 

Verse, a breeze, mid blossoms straying, S. T.Coleridge, 

Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep, Campbell , 

Virtue, forever frail, as fair, below, E. Yinnig, 

Virtue ! without thee, Thomson, 

Wall, no ! I can't tell whar he lives Hay, . . 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play, Baillie, . 



880 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Want passed for merit at her open door : 

Was this the singer 1 had heard so long? 

Waters al)ove ! eternal springs ! 

We are all here \ 

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon ; . . . 

We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 

We are ever waiting, waiting, 

We are face to face, and between us here, 

We are living — we are dwelling, . 

We are not always equal to our fate 

We are the sweet flowers, 

We are two travellers, Koger and I, 

We are wrong always, when we think too much, . . . 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 

We count the broken lyres that rest, 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped liower, 

Weep not for me ; — 

We have been friends together, 

We indeed have heard, 

Welcome, silence ! welcome! peace ! 

We light on fruits and flowers, and purest things : . . 
We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breath ; . 

We live not in our moments or our years, 

Well, I confess, ] did ni>t guess 

Well might red slianie my cheek consume ! 

We may not choose ! 

We merry three, . • . . ■ 

We must have doves and serpents in our heart ! . . . 

We're all alone, we're all alone ! 

Were I at Petra, could I not declare, 

Werther had a love for Charlotte, 

We sat by tlie olioerless fireside, 

We should fill the liours with the sweetest things, . . 

We that were friends, yet are not now, 

We two have grown up so tiivinely together, 

We walk alone through all life's various ways, . . . . 
We watched her breathing through the niglit, . . . . 

We were not many, — we who stood, 

What ails this heart o' mine ? 

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh? 

What a time since 1 wrote ! — I'm a sad, naughty girl, . 
What could tliey be but ha[)py ? balanced so, ... . 

Wliat frightens you thus, my good son ? 

AVhat hcartaclie, — ne'er a hill * 

What if tlu; foot, ordained the dust to tread, 

Wliat is hope? A smiling rainbow, 

AVhat is it tliat doth spoil tlie fair adorning, 

What is the dearest happiness of heaven? 

What is the little one flunking about? 

What lies beyond the fair horizon's rim? 

What love do 1 bring you? 

What makes a hero ? not success, not fame, 

What man can hear sweet sounds and dread to die ? 
What man is he that boasts of fleshly might, . . . . 

Wliat memory fired lier pallid face, 

" W'liat need lias tlie singer to sing?" 

Wliat sliall 1 do Willi all the days and hours, 

" What shall 1 sing?" I sighed, and said 

What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod, 

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light?. . . 

Wliat though I sing no other song? 

AVhal thou-h not all 

What though sliorl thy date! 

Wliat though the i-hilly wide-mouthed quacking, . . . 

What thought is folded in thy leaves ! 

What to do to make thy fame, 

What wak'st tliou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods. 

What war so cruel, or what siege so sore, 

What was 1 cannot tell — Ikou kuow'st our story, . . . 



Dry den, 206 

Crancli, 173 

J'aw/lian, 624 

Spragnc 533 

Hhcllcij, 495 

B. W. Procti')\ ... 444 

C. IJ. IV. Browndl, . CO 

P. Cary, 123 

Coxe, 816 

Simmn 502 

Hunt 299 

Troifbridge, .... 786 

E. Ji. />n)wning, . . (56 

Arnold, 25 

Holmes, 276 

Burns, 83 

Newman, 396 

Norton, 398 

Crabbe, 163 

Bloom/ield, .... 42 

Trench, 605 

r. J. Bailey, .... 26 

Trench, 005 

Hood, 737 

Trowbridge, .... 612 

JacL-soii, 830 

MacLay, 756 

Quarle's, 451 

,Spofford, .530 

Tapper, 619 

ThncLeray, .... 783 

Stoddiird, 542 

Dickinson, 188 

Lord Howjhton, ... 288 

Trowbridije, .... 613 

E. Gray, 240 

Hood, 281 

Hoffman, 270 

Blamire, 40 

n. Soatheij, .... 519 

Moore, 760 

J!. Browning, .... 71 

M. Prior, 774 

Lanier 328 

Pope 430 

Carh/le, 119 

A. Van/ 122 

Coolidqe, 813 

Holland 272 

Jennison, 833 

Spofford 531 

air H. Tail lor, ... 571 

A. T. De i'ere, ... 186 

E. Spenser 528 

Spofford 529 

J. ('. /!. Dorr, . . . 194 

Kemble 317 

J. J. Piatt, .... 418 

Campbell, 108 

Sarqent, 471 

Winter 661 

Akensidc, 6 

E. Younq, 683 

S. T. Coierid(/e, ... 710 

T. B. Aldrich, ... 11 

Mack at/, 365 

Hemans 260 

E. Spenser 525 

Howe 28» 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



881 



What, what is virtue, but repose of miiul, 

What wondrous power from heaven upon thee wrought '. 
What would I save thee from, dear heart ! . . 
What would life keep for me if thou should'st go 

When at eve 1 sit alone, 

When beeches brighten early May, . . , . . 
When Britain first, at Heaven's command, . . 
When brooks of summer shallow run, .... 

When by the evening's quiet light, 

When chance or cruel business parts us two, . 
When chapman billies leave the street, . . . 

When chill November's surly blast 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, . . . 

Whene'er with haggard eyes 1 view, 

When eve is purpling cliff and cave, 

When first 1 looked into thy glorious eyes, . . 
When first religion came to bless the land, . . 
When first the bride and bridegroom wed, . . 
When first the soul of love is sent abroad, . . 
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave. 
When freedom from her mountain height, . . 
When, from the sacred garden driven, .... 

When God at first made man, 

When I am dead, my dearest, 

When I am turned to mouldering dust, .... 
When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit, . . . 
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, 
When I consider how my light is spent, . . . 
When 1 have fears that I may cease to be, . . 
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence. 

When I shall go, 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

When 1 was dead, my spirit turned, 

When last the maple bud was swelling, . . . 

When love is in her eyes, 

When maidens such as Hester die, 

When May, with cowslip-braided locks, . . . 

When men in health against yhysicians rail. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young. . . . 

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare, 

When some proud son of man returns to earth. 

When the drum of sickness beats, 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, . . 

When the rose is brightest 

When the sheep are in the fauld, 

When the stern genius, to whose hollow tramp. 

When to any saint 1 pray, 

When to soft Sleep we give ourselves away, . . 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, . 

Where are you, Sylvia, where ? 

Where did you come from, baby dear? . . . . 

Where honeysuckles scent the way, 

Where is the dust that has not been alive? . . 

Where is thy favored haunt, eternal voice, . . 

Where now the rill, melo<lious, pure, and cool, . 

Where shall we find a perfect life, whereby, . . 

Where slopes the beach to the setting sun, . . 

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? 

Which I wish to remark— 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power ! . . . . 

While daisies on the meadow green, .... 

White stars begin to prick the wan blue sky, , 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, . . . 

Who is it rides with whip and spur, 

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 

Whom shall we praise ? 

Who now shall grace the glowing throne, . . , 

Who often reads will sometimes wish to write, 



TJiomsnn 595 

TliaxU'r, 588 

a}l<l<r, 232 

Jen III soil, 833 

N. H. JiroinirU, . . . 59 

Cheney 812 

Tlidiiiaon, 597 

C'ornirell, 815 

Lorer, 347 

Coir/ei/, 156 

Burns, 695 



Burns, . 
Bijron, . 
Canning, 



85 
92 
T08 



Crolij, 178 

Whitman, X56 

Crabhe, 169 

Stoildarfl, 540 

Thomson, 593 

Vauqhan, 624 

nrale, 197 

Sprai/iie, 532 

Herbert 263 

C. a. h'ossetti. ... 465 

BoL-er, ...... 804 

T. B. Aldrich, ... 11 

Motherwell, .... 391 

Milton, 379 

Keats 310 

Shalcespenre 488 

M. Arnold 24 

Q. P. Lathrop. ... 837 

Scott, 479 

C. G. Bossetti, ... 466 

Gallagher, 820 

Fay, 222 

Lamb, 325 

B. Taylor, 567 

Crabbe 165 

W. Collins, .... 145 

Herbert, 264 

Bi/ron 94 

Stoddard, 541 

Diclrinson, 187 

Willis 653 

Baniard, 30 

B. Taylor, 565 

Parsons, 763 

T. B. Aldrit'h, ... 11 

Shakespeare, .... 489 

Gosse, 821 

Macdonald, .... 359 

F. Bates, 32 

E. Young, 684 

Keble, 314 

Beattie, 35 

llichardson 4.')9 

. . 472 

. . 308 

. . 729 

. . 6.50 

. . 659 

. . 33? 

. . 432 

. . 358 

. . 840 



Sarar/e. 
S. Johnson, 
Bret Harte, 
Williams, . 
Winter, . . 
Lazarus, 
Pope, . . . 
W. Young, 
It.B.Lyiton, 

Mackay '57 

Sprague, 534 

Crabbe, 163 



882 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



WHiose is the gold that glitters in the mine? Sigoumey, 500 

Who will tell me the secret, the cause, Kay, 836 

Who would by law regain his plundered store, .... Crahhe, 164 

Who would call the tench a whale, Tupper, 618 

Why am I loth to leave tliis earthly scene, Burns 83 

Why art thou colored like the evening sky, T/iaxfer, ,587 

Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant, ...... JVordswortli, .... 672 

Why, death, what dost thou here C. Cook; 812 

Why don't the men propose, mamma? T. H. Bayly, .... 688 

Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Keble, 315 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ! Suckliny, 550 

Why start at death ! Where is he? E. Youny 682 

Wliv tlius longing, thus forever sighing Setcall 483 

Wliy was 1 born, and where was J, Cranch, 176 

Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, .... Lover, 747 

Wild rose of Alloway ! my thanks ; Halleck, 249 

Will the day ever come, 1 wonder, J. C. Jt. Dorr, .... 193 

Wilt thou forgive me in that other sphere Movlton, 845 

Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! . . . ]{. H. Wilde 649 

With fingers weary and worn, Hood, 281 

Witliin the solier realm (if leafless trees, Head, 454 

Within this lowly .L;r:ive a ('oncjueror lies Bryant, 79 

With irresolute hngir he km loked at each one, . . . . Ji. B. Lytton .... 752 

With my beloved 1 lingered late one night, G. J'. Laihrop, ... 334 

Without your showers, Freneau, 228 

With the same letter heaven and home begin , . . . . Very, 627 

Woman's faith an<l woman's trust, Scott 479 

Woodman, spare that tree ! G. P. Moi-ris, . . . 388 

Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear, . . . Simms, 501 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Praed, 769 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, Burns, 85 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers T. Gray 244 

Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, . . Campbell, ill 

Ye Mariners of England ! Ca7npbell 110 



Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ; Lou-ell, 350 

Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; Byron, 97 

Yes, social friend, I love thee well, Sjjrayiie 533 

Yes, 'twill be over soon, — ». H. K. White,. . . . 636 

Yes, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying ; Hohnes, 732 

Yet of his little he had some to spare • Diyden, 207 

Yet once more, griever at Keglect Ttipper 619 

"Yet, onward still !" the spirit cries within, . , . . Sivims, 501 

Yet, though thou fade, ^:A: ''"'"'e 636 

Ye've gathered to your place of prayer, Willis 652 

Yon car of fire, though veiled by day, Lunt, 838 

Yon woodland, like a human mind, Hayne, 256 

You are old. Father William, the young man cried, . Ji. Smitliey. .... 517 

You may drink to your leman in gold, Stoddard, .542 

Young Ben, he w-as a nice young man, Hood 740 

Young Kory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, .... Lover, 746 

Your poem must eternal be, S. T. Coleridge, . . . 711 

You think you love me. Marguerite K. P. Osgood, . . . 403 

Youth, thou art lied, — but where are all the charms, . H.Coleridge,. ... 133 



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